


Change

by MoonBeams



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, BAMF John, Branches off somewhere around S1 or S2 but no Moriarty, Cuddling & Snuggling, Escape to the countryside, Fluff, Hair stroking, Intercrural Sex, John to the Rescue, Johnlock Roulette, Kidnapping, M/M, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining, Mycroft's Meddling, Not Canon Compliant, Sharing a Bed, Sherlock struggles, Sherlock's Violin, Shower Sex, Slow Burn, Supernatural Elements, Supportive!John, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Werewolves, ridiculously happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-30
Updated: 2018-01-24
Packaged: 2019-02-08 19:13:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 53,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12871179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoonBeams/pseuds/MoonBeams
Summary: After being attacked on a case, Sherlock is changed, physically and mentally. Change is never easy to accept, and it's even harder when Sherlock simultaneously has to deal with a brother who wants to lock him away, and his developing feelings for John.NOW COMPLETE!





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> Huge and endless thanks to Emily for some super helpful beta work and for saying such lovely things that made my little heart want to burst. Thanks also to Kerry (Blackpearl) for looking over it and listening to me go on about it for like, a year, thx bbe.
> 
> Find me at hannahrrrr.tumblr.com

It’s the middle of the night, and their suspect is leading them at a flat-out run down winding back lanes and shadowy alleys, so John doesn’t see the pile of ripped clothes until he’s practically tripping over them. 

Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

He keeps running, stumbling a little with the realisation. Sherlock is ahead, and even if he’s seen the clothes he won’t know what they mean, and their target will be angry, and Sherlock doesn’t have a gun. John takes a quick, fortifying breath, pushes down his fear, and throws himself into the alley after Sherlock.

He rounds the next corner just in time to see a huge grey wolf leap out of the shadows into Sherlock’s path and sink its tremendous teeth into his side. Sherlock’s hoarse cry of pain is covered by John’s gunshot. The wolf falls, a seeping dark hole punched between its eyes.

“Sherlock! Fuck, he bit you. Okay, we need to… Oh, God.”

Sherlock is gripping his wounded side, gasping, face screwed up in shock and agony. John grabs his arm. 

“Sherlock, look at me. Good. Listen, this isn’t going to be easy. It’s going to really fucking hurt, but you’ll get through it. Understand?”

John waits for Sherlock’s jerky nod. He has seconds to prepare him. Efficiently, he strips him of his coat, belt, scarf. He won’t be strangled by his own clothes on John’s watch.

“What’s happening?” Sherlock groans.

John doesn’t have time to remove the rest. “It won’t be long now,” he says. “I hope you weren’t too attached to that suit.”

With a jerk, Sherlock’s whole body seizes up, his eyes closing as though in pain. John quickly backs off. He’s never seen this happen before. Is the first time any different? Sherlock’s skeleton cracks. Tendons grate against bones. John wasn’t prepared for the sounds, surprisingly like a low-budget horror film. Sherlock’s skin seems to ripple, then bristle, and the change rolls through him. He falls to the ground, his suit falling off in shreds from his body. His wolf body.

The wolf — Sherlock — pants, stunned. He lifts his head, scrambles a little, and staggers to his paws, whining as his bitten side stretches and pulls. He attempts to shake off the scraps of fabric still clinging to him, but wobbles, uncoordinated in his new form. Like a baby. Like a pup. He turns to sniff at the dead body of the other wolf beside him. John, watching, surreptitiously thumbs out a text to Lestrade and Mycroft: _Help._

Sherlock turns back to look up at John, and John’s breath catches in his throat. Sherlock’s eyes are the pale silver-blue of his human eyes — not the usual yellow or orange of wolves — and the effect of the blue against his dark coat is stunning. It takes John a long moment to remember to break eye contact. This is Sherlock’s first time in wolf form, and new instincts are humming through him. John doesn’t want to provoke him.

Sherlock whines again and stumbles closer to John. The bite on his side is bleeding into his fur.

“I know, it hurts,” John says softly, trying hard not to appear a threat.

Sherlock wobbles closer again, apparently still perplexed by being on four legs, and butts his warm muzzle against John’s hand.

John holds it out for him to sniff. “It’s me, Sherlock. Don’t worry, help is on its way.”

Sherlock turns — steadier now — and makes his way down the alley towards the main road. John hurries after him.

“No, no, no, Sherlock, we need to stay here. You can’t just go out on the road. You’re—”

Sherlock reaches the main road and freezes, turns, and flees back into the darkness of the alley.

“Too much?”

Trembling, Sherlock comes over to push himself against John’s side.

“Sorry,” John says. “I know it’s difficult.”

Cautiously, he places a hand on Sherlock’s back. To his relief, Sherlock doesn’t react violently, and he gets to keep his fingers.

“Mycroft should be here soon,” he says. “I know you don’t like him, but that’s the least of your worries. You’ve got a lot ahead to get through.”

Sherlock flops down onto his uninjured side. John doesn’t know if he can understand human speech right now. This is his first change, and the human side of him is battling the intrusion of the wolf. Sherlock’s clearly confused, probably in pain; he’s keeping up a low, steady whine. John just hopes his voice is providing him a little comfort.

“Here’s what’s going to happen next, Sherlock. Your body is confused. Soon it’ll force the change back to your human form. That’s gonna be painful. You may pass out. But we’ll get you to hospital, and I’ll be there for you the whole time, I promise.”

Sherlock just lies whimpering at his feet until black cars pull up at the mouth of the alley: Mycroft’s people. They don’t approach. Sherlock’s body starts to tremble. He’s beginning the change back to his human form.

“This will hurt, but don’t resist it,” John tells him.

Sherlock’s fur seems to tighten, then sink into his body, as his bones crack and twist. A mix of a wolf’s whine and a human’s groan comes from his throat. Limbs shift, his face changes shape, teeth replace canines, and then Sherlock is lying curled on the alley floor, whole, except for the harsh-looking bite marring his pale side. He’s unconscious.

Mycroft’s people move in then, surrounding them while John wraps Sherlock in his own coat. The only thing left to do now is take him to hospital.

  
  
***  
  


Sherlock wakes to what feels like knife-sharp splinters of ice drilling into his head. The feeling is worse than any headache he’s ever had, and he hasn’t even opened his eyes yet. Then a warm, dry hand squeezes his and the icicles melt just a tiny bit.

“John,” he says.

Or tries to say, but what he hears come out of his mouth is more of a garbled moan. The pressure of the hand disappears. He forces his eyes open. The room is thankfully dimly lit. Hospital. No, private hospital. Clinic? Mycroft’s doing. His whole body aches, his side is throbbing. _John._

A cup of water is placed against his lips.

“Alright?” asks John.

Sherlock drinks without answering. How alright he is depends on what happened, and he can’t remember that.

“Head hurts,” he says instead.

John looks grim. “Yeah, you’ll get that.”

Sherlock hates asking what happened to him almost as much as he hates people repeating themselves. He’ll work it out himself. 

They were on a case. David Finchley had asked Sherlock to find out who had taken his engagement ring just days before he was going to propose to his partner. Boring. Sentiment. The culprit had turned out to be his half-brother, Thomas. Jealousy. Dull. He’d run away when they went to his apartment to confront him. They’d chased him down alleys. John had been behind. God, his head hurts so much.

It gets harder to remember then. There was a gunshot, but he can’t remember Thomas Finchley going down. Had he been shot himself? He remembers pounding down the alleyway, yellow eyes shining suddenly out of the darkness, but that can’t be right, because no human being has eyes that shade. He remembers pain. Confusion. John, looking panicked.

John is silently watching him work it out. He seems reluctant to offer up details himself.

Growling. Yellow eyes. Had there been a dog? Thomas Finchley didn’t own a dog. But, ah! The throbbing pain on his side is a bite. He remembers being bitten. But where did the dog come from?

“I’m not sure you have the necessary data to put it all together,” John says.

“Ridiculous,” Sherlock replies. His throat is sore. “I have a mind palace full of data.”

But even so, he’s at a loss. He’ll have to ask.

“Where did the dog come from, John?”

John bites at his lip. “It wasn’t a dog.”

“But the growling? The yellow eyes? It must— oh! A wolf! In London?”

He expects a little explanation from John, but all he says is, “Yeah. A wolf.”

Why would there be a wolf in London? “So I’m here for the bite. Tetanus?”

John laughs ruefully. “No, you don’t need to worry about tetanus.”

John is no help. He needs to search deeper in his mind palace.

A wolf in London. Something which he doesn’t have the necessary data for. Something rare. But John knows more than he’s saying. And John is worried about him finding out.

Another memory. Feeling uncoordinated, off-balance. As if he’d been drugged. His arms are clean, now, and there’s no dressing on his neck, no sign of injection. But he can’t have been drugged via the wolf’s bite. Some piece of knowledge is knocking deep within his mind palace. Something else is scratching at the windows. He must know what happened, but he can’t recall it. And what is this presence outside his mind palace, trying to get in?

John has his mixed expression of concerned-doctor-concerned-friend on.

“Your body is tired. You need sleep. Your brain will work better if it’s rested.”

Sherlock wants to protest, but it’s true that he’s feeling fuzzy. Whatever unfamiliar presence is haunting the periphery of his mind palace is draining his energy. Sherlock rolls onto his side, facing John.

“You told me you’d stay with me the whole time, before I blacked out,” he says.

“I did,” John replies.

He’s still staying, Sherlock can tell, but something in John’s face suggests that there was more to the context of the promise than he can remember. He’ll figure it out later.

  
  
***  
  


_There’s a scratching at the door to his mind palace. There’s never been a door to the outside. He has all he needs inside. Scratching, whining. He didn’t put this door here. Should he open it? Sherlock reaches out a hand to the door knob. The second he touches it, the scrabbling outside stops. He should open it. Whatever is standing outside wants him to. Sharply, he tugs the door open. There is a wolf._

Come, run with me, _it says in Sherlock’s head._

You’re faster than me, _he replies._ I can’t keep up with you.

We’ll see about that, _says the wolf._

_It turns and runs off into the darkness. As if pulled by a magnet, Sherlock sprints after it, leaving his mind palace behind. They run past blurs that vaguely resemble London streets that Sherlock knows. The wolf is always ahead, getting farther and farther away._

Keep up! _it calls, almost lost in the twilight._

Wait! _Sherlock shouts after it._

_The wolf has almost vanished when Sherlock puts on a burst of speed, low to the ground and with the surer balance of four paws. He’s catching up again—_

_Wait._

_Four paws._

_He tries to look down at himself, but everything is getting darker. He can’t see anything, he can’t see the wolf, he can’t———_

Sherlock wakes suddenly with a gasp. He knows.

“You’re awake, brother.”

Ugh, hideous. Mycroft is sitting in John’s chair. Where is John? Sherlock needs to talk to him. John knows what’s going to happen to him. John promised he wouldn’t leave. Now Sherlock is, he’s— he’s— He needs John. He can’t process this alone. Mycroft’s presence is painful. He wants nothing more than to turn his back on his brother, but that would mean lying on his injured side.

“Where’s John?”

“I persuaded him to go and get some food. He’s been sitting by your bedside for hours, worrying himself.”

Sherlock’s headache is a dull bass throb that’s amping up with every second that Mycroft stays.

“Go away and make him come back.”

“There’s no need to be so petulant. All I want is to see how my little brother is doing.”

“My head hurts.” He does _not_ want Mycroft to know what he’s realised. “And you’re making it worse. Go away.”

Mycroft is an irritating buzz in Sherlock’s head. How many hours has Sherlock been in bed now? How many hours has he been sleeping? If he can’t go home soon — very soon — something is going to get broken. Probably Mycroft’s nose.

“We need to discuss how you are going to proceed with you life, following—”

“For the last time, Mycroft, go away!”

“You heard him, Mycroft. Clear out.”

John! John is standing in the doorway with a takeaway cup of low-quality tea which he almost certainly won’t enjoy. Mycroft grimaces; he detests being ordered around.

“Don’t think we’re done here, Sherlock.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. John stands steady and sure like a guard dog until Mycroft has left.

“Insufferable. I thought he’d never go,” Sherlock says, but it doesn’t come out quite right — it lacks its normal bite.

John sits down and studies Sherlock’s face. 

“You’ve realised,” he says.

“You weren’t here, John.” That wasn’t what Sherlock meant to say, and he certainly didn’t mean for it to sound so vulnerable. 

“I’m sorry,” John says. Sherlock appreciates that he doesn’t start making excuses. “Tell me what you’ve realised and I’ll fill in the gaps,” he continues.

“The wolf didn’t come out of nowhere. It came out of Thomas Finchley. He was the wolf. You thought I wouldn’t have all the necessary data because people like him are rare. Society barely talks about them. Their kind keep to themselves. It’s the kind of useless information I’d delete. But it was buried deep in my mind palace.”

John is silent. So far, so easy. Now for the hard part.

“Thomas Finchley is a Were. And he bit me.”

“Was,” says John.

“What?”

“Thomas Finchley _was_ a Were. Until I put a bullet through his brain because he attacked you.”

Sherlock wants to reach out and touch to somehow soothe John’s anger. He doesn’t know how well that would be received. 

“Am I a Were now?” Sherlock asks. He only trusts John with this question. He would never have asked Mycroft.

John takes a delaying sip of his takeaway tea and grimaces at the quality.

“There are two ways someone can be a Were,” he says. “One is if both parents are Weres, and the other is if you get bitten by a Were. So yes, you are. But I’ll help you through it.”

Sherlock is nervous, apprehensive, but not scared. John is promising to help him.

“How do you know so much, John? You knew what the bite meant. You knew to take off my coat and my belt. You knew when it would hurt. Most people hardly even know about the existence of Weres.”

John takes a gulp of his awful tea. “I took an interest in it at med school,” he says. “Did a lot of reading. Had some experience of it in Afghanistan too.”

Sherlock nods, then winces. “Get me something for my head. Please.” Pleases make John more amenable.

“You’re already dosed up,” John says. “I bet you’re bored of being cooped up though. Shall we break out of here?”

That perks Sherlock up. “And go home?”

John smiles. “That depends on how well you do. And remember, I’m your doctor, so I’ll know if you’re bluffing. For now, we’ll take a walk around the park.”

 

The sharp lights of the clinic’s corridors hurt Sherlock’s eyes, but outside it’s dusk and much more acceptable.

The first step he takes outside, Sherlock has to stop. Everything is so much _more_ than usual.

“Heightened senses?” he asks John.

“Yep,” John replies. “I imagine that since you’re so much more observant than most people anyway it’ll be more obvious to you.”

Sherlock is pleased. This will be rather useful for cases. They cross the road and enter the park. John is keeping a close eye on Sherlock.

“How’s your head now? No dizziness?”

“No, just painful. It’s manageable.”

“It’ll come and go for a couple of weeks,” John says. “Some days will be worse than others. It’s your body and brain trying to get used to the new Were part of you. It’s easier for some to accept than others.”

“What effect does it have on your mind?” Sherlock asks.

John chews on his lip. “There isn’t much information on that,” he replies. 

They walk on in silence. Sherlock is considering what all of this will mean for his life now. Heightened senses, good. Headaches for weeks, not good. John doesn’t know what will happen to his mind. And his body? Being in wolf form doesn’t sound appealing, especially after the unbalanced, painful first time.

“Go on, ask,” says John.

Is he really that obvious? No. Only to John. They’ve been living together for long enough now that even someone as unobservant as John can read him almost as well as Mycroft does. But he doesn’t feel the need to hide his feelings around John the way he does with Mycroft.

“What about changing?” he asks. “Do I have to? How often? Is is always that awful? Why did—”

“Woah, slow down,” John laughs.

Sherlock does his best not to pout, but with his headache, and the burning desire to know all the answers, it’s hard to be patient.

“You ought to change at least once a month, at the full moon,” John says. “More regularly, if possible, but I haven’t read about anyone who tried to change less often. The first change is the hardest because you’ve never done it before, but every change after that gets easier and easier.”

“When’s the next full moon? Did you find out? Is it soon?”

“Enough with the twenty questions.” John rests a hand on his arm, but only briefly. “Yeah I, uh, I looked it up. There was a full moon a few days before we started this case, so you’ve got a little under a month.”

“That’s fine,” Sherlock says. “Can we break out of here and go home now? I’m fine, see? Just need some painkillers for my head and I’ll be back to normal.”

“Mostly normal,” John replies. “Your definition of normal is going to have to change. You’re taking this remarkably well.”

“It won’t inconvenience me too much.”

John starts leading them back towards the clinic. “I think you might be underestimating it,” he says. “But let’s stay optimistic for the time being.”


	2. 2

Three days after John broke Sherlock out of the clinic and took him home, the prescription painkillers have finally made progress on Sherlock’s headache. They’re able to go to Scotland Yard and give Lestrade their statements on the Finchley case. John appreciates that absolutely no mention is made of his gun (thanks to Mycroft, probably). He doesn’t fail to notice the new way Lestrade looks at Sherlock when Sherlock has his back turned, but thankfully he doesn’t say anything. Sherlock doesn’t need sympathy, just support.

  


When they get back to the flat it’s time to check Sherlock’s wound. John sits him on the edge of the bath, turned towards the light. Sherlock’s skin is pale in the bright bathroom, the red of the bite an angry contrast. John cleans the wound with light touches, murmuring an apology for the sting of the antiseptic. He redresses the bite and gently pats the unharmed skin beside it.

“Clean, uninfected and healing well. Let me know if it gets sore.”

“Of course,” Sherlock says. His eyes look tired.

“I’m popping to the shop for a few things, and I would really like you to get some rest, okay?”

“Ugh, why all this resting?” Sherlock pulls his shirt back on.

“Your body is trying to heal a vicious bite and adapt to a completely new form, all while sustaining constant head pain and running on your standard sleep deficit. It’s hardly surprising that you need rest.”

John tidies up the medical supplies and makes sure Sherlock is lying on the sofa before he leaves. He’ll probably get up again the second John’s out the front door, but at least he tried.  
But John is pleasantly surprised when he gets back from the shop to see that Sherlock is still on the sofa — until he realises that Sherlock is curled in the foetal position, with his arms bracketing his head and squeezing like they’re keeping his skull from splitting open.

John quickly kneels next to the sofa. “Sherlock?”

“Stop shouting,” Sherlock groans.

“Sorry,” John whispers. “Is it a migraine?”

“That wolf is still trying to get into my mind palace. My head is going to fall apart,” Sherlock replies.

“Have you taken any painkillers?”

“No.”

John gets up to fetch some, pulling the curtains closed on the way to dim the room.

“You’re going to have to sit up just a little bit,” he says, returning. “Here, I’ll help.”

He wraps an arm around Sherlock’s shoulders. Sherlock very cautiously moves his arms away from his head and John helps him sit up a little to take the pills. In the dim light he’s paler than usual. As Sherlock lies back down, John sits down on the sofa and settles Sherlock’s head in his lap. Sherlock makes a soft, confused sound. 

“This will help,” John says. He hopes so, anyway.

Slowly he slides his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, around and behind his ear, where John always suffered his own migraines. He keeps his touch light, but not so light it’s ticklish. Sherlock’s tense form relaxes just a little. His curls feel so soft slipping through John’s fingers. If he’s honest, he’s wanted to do this for — well, for ages, now. Sherlock has always been more hands-on with John, more in his personal space than John would dare to be.

“I had a girlfriend in uni who used to get these terrible headaches,” John whispers. “This would soothe them a bit. Darkening the room helped too.”

Sherlock either doesn’t want to reply, or doesn’t have the energy to manage it. 

John continues, “You get headaches because your brain is trying to fight the wolf’s presence. The wolf wants to come in and piss all over the territory, so to speak. Your brain resists it. It’s a battle, and to your human brain, it feels confusing and intrusive, but the sooner you accept it, the sooner the headaches will go.” He pauses. “That’s what I read, anyway. I can find you the literature on it if you want.”

“No need,” Sherlock says. “I have you.”

John smiles, still stroking Sherlock’s hair. The room is dim and warm. Sherlock’s head is a comfortable weight in his lap. His shoulder presses against John’s thigh. John can feel the tension slowly draining from him.

“Am I helping?” he asks.

Sherlock rumbles a soft hum. He sounds like a content cat. Funny to think that he’s part-wolf now. John wouldn’t have ever imagined it happening to Sherlock.

“Making me sleepy,” Sherlock murmurs.

“Good,” John replies. He tugs the blanket off the back of the sofa and arranges it over Sherlock. Sherlock shifts around restlessly until John resumes stroking his hair.

“Don’t let me sleep too long,” Sherlock says.

“I’ll let you sleep exactly as long as you need,” John replies.

Sherlock snuggles into the blanket, and John tips his head back onto the sofa and closes his eyes. He could definitely think of worse places to be.

 

***

 

“John!” Sherlock hisses. John’s fingers have gone still in his hair. He lifts himself up from John’s lap and shakes his shoulder. The blanket slips down to his waist.

John has fallen asleep, his head tipped back and to the side.

“John, wake up!”

John lifts his head and blinks owlishly at him.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to fall asleep,” he says, wincing, and rubs the back of his neck.

“Not important,” Sherlock says, dismissive. “Mycroft is downstairs. I can hear him talking to Mrs. Hudson.”

John swears softly but colourfully. It’s a skill he picked up in the army. Sherlock likes it more than he’d ever admit.

“Can’t he leave us alone?” John asks. “Isn’t it really late?”

The room is dark; no daylight filters through the closed curtains.

“Not really, but too late for visitors,” Sherlock replies. Reluctantly he pulls himself away from the soft sofa and soft, warm, sleepy John. “Up, John. We can’t have Mycroft thinking we go to bed in the afternoon like a couple of old men.” He switches on the light.

John sighs, stands up and folds the blanket Sherlock left in a heap on the floor.

“I’ll make the tea then,” he says.

As the kettle boils, and Mycroft comes up the stairs, Sherlock starts up a racket on his violin. As much as he hates torturing his beautiful instrument like this, he knows that Mycroft hates it even more. John is clattering about in the kitchen. Sherlock grins from his chair as John selects the mug Sherlock likes least for Mycroft’s tea — a mug which has had several noxious experiments in it.

Mycroft steps inside and opens his mouth, about to speak, but decides not to battle with Sherlock’s violin. He sits down opposite Sherlock, instead, and waits patiently for his tea before he begins. Irritated that Mycroft has chosen to sit in John’s chair without being invited to, Sherlock keeps up the screeches and wails on his violin.

“If you could stop that intolerable racket, baby brother, we could begin.”

“Sherlock hasn’t been a baby for a long time, Mycroft,” John says.

Sherlock stops playing. He doesn’t let himself smile. Of course he’s perfectly capable of defending himself against Mycroft, and has been for a long time before John came into his life, but he still likes hearing John do it.

“One could argue that, following his recent attack, Sherlock is now an infant in some aspects of his life.”

Sherlock is glad that he never picked up Mycroft’s smarm.

“Or one could argue that Sherlock is a fully grown man who is able to accept and adapt to this change, like all the other people who have had to.”

John is sitting on the sofa where Sherlock was curled only a few minutes before. Sherlock can see where the hair on the back of his head is sticking up from his awkward sleeping position. That, and his getting defensive of Sherlock, makes Sherlock think of him as adorable, but he’s sure that if he ever voiced that John would punch him in the face.

“Not all adapt,” Mycroft counters.

“Some people find it hard,” John says. “Sherlock can cope.”

“Some people become suicidal,” Mycroft says.

John sips his tea while glaring daggers over the edge of his mug at Mycroft.

“I propose that Sherlock be moved to a centre where this process can be facilitated. He will be monitored, and any issues will be addressed by the best doctors and psychologists in the country.”

Sherlock almost snaps the end of his bow. John’s daggers grow into swords.

“No,” they both say at once.

“I believe it’s something that should be considered,” Mycroft says calmly.

He gets up, places a folder on the table, and shows himself out.

When they hear the front door downstairs close, John very, very carefully puts his mug down and stands up. His fists are clenched.

“I’m going to bed,” he says. “Feel free to burn that folder.”

His anger is thick and barely leaves the room when he does. Sherlock stares after him. 

What can he do to help? Mycroft’s proposal — not yet a demand — was hardly surprising, but he knows his brother better than John does. What _was_ surprising was the strength of John’s reaction. Of course John would oppose the idea; as Sherlock’s doctor, he’s perfectly qualified to care for him, and he knows how much Sherlock would hate being locked up in a centre like that.

Sherlock gets up and rifles through his sheet music. John has never said, but Sherlock knows what he likes for every mood. This requires some Bach.

 

***

 

“I think my senses are beginning to sort themselves out,” Sherlock announces a few days later.

“That’s good,” John replies. “That means your Were and your human side are starting to accept each other.”

John is dusting the mantelpiece. Sherlock doesn’t know why he bothers. Mrs. Hudson will do it if they don’t. Carefully John dusts around the small glass of ashes he put there as some sort of memento. John had been pleased to come downstairs the morning after Mycroft’s proposal to find the folder burned, but Sherlock hadn’t thought he’d actually keep the ashes.

“I still don’t want a wolf in my mind palace,” he says.

“It doesn’t have to take over completely,” John says. “Does your mind palace have a garden? You could build it a kennel.”

Sherlock stares at him incredulously. It’s times like these that John joins the ranks of everyday idiots.

John looks over and laughs. Laughing makes him paradoxically less idiotic. 

“All I’m saying is you’ll have to learn to keep the two together, but separate. If you need a kennel to do that, then so be it.”

Sherlock flops face first onto the sofa. It’s harder for his brain to eat itself up with boredom when he’s in pain most of the time, but now that he’s reached that point, it’s twice as bad as usual.

“I need a case,” he says into the cushion.

“Text Lestrade,” John replies. “I’m sure he could use your help on something. Or check your emails. Last I saw there were over five hundred in your inbox.”

“All dull. And Lestrade won’t treat me the same way now. I saw his face when we gave our statements.” John probably thinks he didn’t notice.

There’s a moment of silence as John takes this in.

“He won’t treat you differently if you prove to him that he doesn’t have to. He just doesn’t know what to expect. Most people don’t even know when one of their friends or colleagues is a Were.”

“Most people are shockingly unobservant,” Sherlock says.

John bursts out laughing.

“What? It’s true!”

John clears his throat and calms himself. “Yes, I suppose it is.”

Sherlock doesn’t know why John is laughing at him. He decides to increase his sulk level. Later he’ll make some changes to his mind palace. But not a kennel. A stronger door.

 

***

 

John rouses Sherlock off the sofa in the middle of the next day.

“I have a case for you,” he says. “Double murder. Lestrade couldn’t be more stuck. But you have to eat something before I tell you any more.”

“That’s bribery,” Sherlock complains. He still appears to be in a sulky mood. “I could just leave by myself and go to Scotland Yard.”

“Yes, but if you don’t eat, you can’t take your painkillers, and I’d imagine your head is quite painful now, after a day and a night on the sofa with only two cups of tea and one biscuit.”

Sherlock looks blank. John had strategically placed the tea next to him when he was in his mind palace, and the technique had obviously worked. 

“That’s beside the point,” Sherlock says. John hands him a plate of toast. “I strengthened the door to my mind palace so the wolf won’t be bothering me now.”

“You idiot. You’re meant to let your wolf in, not block it out. Blocking it out won’t help anything.”

“You said you don’t know what it’ll do to my mind, John. I’m not going to let it in and become an animal.”

John sighs. Sherlock can be absurdly stubborn, but John can see where he’s coming from. Sadly, he doesn’t have an empirical way to convince Sherlock that accepting his wolf is the best thing for him. 

“Fine. Eat your bloody toast and be proud of your stronger door.”

John turns his back on Sherlock to make them tea. He _knows_ that getting angry with Sherlock won’t get him out of his sulk, but sometimes the man is too difficult. He could be making the transition so much easier for himself. They only have a little over a fortnight until the full moon and Sherlock’s first real change.

He turns back to Sherlock with his mug of tea and his painkillers.

“The East End,” he says. “Two women murdered. No sign of a struggle, no weapon, no witnesses and no apparent link between the victims.”

Sherlock downs his painkillers.

“Could be interesting,” he says. “How long ago did Lestrade contact you?”

John glances at his watch. “About quarter of an hour ago. Get dressed and we can leave straight away.”

Sherlock takes his tea with him to the bathroom. John sighs. He’ll probably find that mug tucked away in a corner in a couple of weeks. By smell, when it starts growing mould.

 

***

 

They’ve been at the scene of the double murder for about half an hour when John notices that something isn’t quite right with Sherlock. He isn’t insulting the forensics department with half as much vitriol. His deductions are about half their usual speed. Every time he glances at one of the floodlights lighting the scene he has to blink hard. He seems to be having trouble focusing on his thoughts.

John moves to stand next to him where he is crouching beside one of the bodies. “Sherlock?”

“I’m fine, John.”

“You’re not, and pretty soon Lestrade will realise and either kick you off the case or drag you off for a drugs test.”

Sherlock pulls a face. “He doesn’t need to. I’m not on anything, and I’m fine.”

“I know you’re clean, Sherlock, but I doubt that you’re fine.”

Sherlock stands, spins around to argue his point and immediately staggers.

“Woah there.” John catches hold of him and sets him upright again. “No more arguing. We’re going home.”

Sherlock looks at him hazily. He decides to try for wheedling. “But the case, John!”

“Shut up and listen to your doctor, Sherlock. It’s time to go home.”

Lestrade is watching them curiously.

“I’m taking Sherlock home,” John tells him. “I’ll text you when he can take the case up again.”

He leads Sherlock out to the road and hails a taxi. As soon as they get inside Sherlock slumps over, obviously tired of pretending to be fine. He leans into John’s shoulder.

“Do you remember what I said this morning about strengthening that door?” John asks.

“John,” Sherlock groans.

Maybe now isn’t the best time for an ‘I told you so’ lecture. John shifts to slide an arm around Sherlock’s shoulders.

“When we get home we’ll close the curtains in your room and make it nice and dark, okay? And if you want I’ll stroke your hair for you.”

Sherlock nods against John’s shoulder, then winces. John squeezes Sherlock’s arm. The cabbie is looking at them funnily but cabbies tend to do that anyway. The whole way home Sherlock is making noises of discomfort. John wonders how he managed to ignore and cover up the pain for so long. Once they’re back, he guides Sherlock out of the cab and into the flat.

“Here, lie down,” he says once they’re in Sherlock’s bedroom.

“There’s a drill in my brain,” Sherlock moans.

John busies himself shutting the curtains and fetching painkillers and water. Sherlock can’t take any more yet, but this way they’re close at hand when he can.

Soon the room is dark. Sherlock has pulled off his suit jacket and thrown it to the floor. John carefully hangs it over the back of his chair and then sits on the bed beside him, leaning back against the headboard. Sherlock rolls so that his head is resting in John’s lap — just like a few days before — and makes himself as comfy as he can.

John works his fingers gently through Sherlock’s hair, stroking and soothing. He keeps it up until he feels Sherlock relax minutely, at least ten minutes later. The only sounds in the room are the soft ticking of the clock and their breathing mixing — John’s steady, and Sherlock’s tense and carefully controlled, pain management.

“Sherlock," John begins quietly, “you need to change that door back.”

Sherlock immediately tenses again. “I can’t.”

“I’m not saying you should let your wolf into your mind palace right now. I understand that you’re…” _Scared? Frightened? Terrified?_ “…apprehensive of what will happen if you do. But look at what the extra-strong door is doing to your mind. You can’t function like this.”

Sherlock is silent. John hopes his point has got through.

How long is it later when Sherlock shifts? John realises that he’s been in a half-doze, hypnotised by the repetitive stroking of Sherlock’s hair. One hour? Two? Sherlock rolls onto his back, his head still in John’s lap. The tension in his face is gone now.

“Better?” John asks.

Sherlock nods. “The wolf has gone to sleep.”

John smiles. “The wolf is you. It doesn’t go to sleep unless you go to sleep. It must just be tired of trying to break down that door.”

Sherlock sighs. “Do I really have to let it in?”

John wants to say yes, but he doesn’t want to start a battle of wills. It needs to be Sherlock’s decision.

“At least change the door back, so I don’t have to carry you home again.”

“You didn’t have to carry me, John. Don’t be dramatic.”

“Imagine having a migraine like that every single day, but worse.”

“John, shh. I’m going to change the door back now. But you need to be quiet so I can concentrate.”

John is quiet. Normally Sherlock kicks him out of the room if he needs to go to his mind palace. But now he’s lying in John’s lap, allowing him to see, allowing him to know Sherlock’s _mind_. It feels like something is shifting. 

Sherlock closes his eyes. He looks comfortable there, now that his migraine has eased off. With Sherlock’s eyes closed, John allows himself to look for once. To really observe, as Sherlock would say. His eyes are moving under his eyelids. He’s probably roaming the corridors of his mind palace. John wonders what it’s like in there. Does it take on the form of Sherlock’s childhood home? Of 221B? Sherlock’s prominent cheekbones are pink-tinged, resting in the warmth of John’s lap. One cheek is imprinted with the texture of John’s jeans. He rarely gets to see Sherlock looking so ruffled. It’s a lovely sight. His eyes drift down to Sherlock’s lips.

He’s usually very careful not to think about Sherlock like this. There are so many reasons why it wouldn’t work, so many ways it could go wrong. He’d rather die than live without the friendship they have now. He almost did, before he met Sherlock. He doesn’t want to jeopardise it. Better not to think about it.

Sherlock’s eyes flicker open. “I changed it back.”

“Good.” John’s stomach rumbles. “We should eat.”

“Your world revolves around food.”

Sherlock levers himself up from John’s lap. John gets up before his lap feels too empty.

“Don’t go anywhere,” he says. “You’re eating too.”

“But the case!” Sherlock is already in the hallway, pulling his coat on.

“Lestrade won’t let you back on it until I tell him to, and I’m not telling him to until you’ve sat down, eaten a full meal, and rested.”

John pulls a Chinese takeaway menu from a drawer in the kitchen. He knows that Sherlock can’t resist their dumplings.

“The usual?” he asks, waving the menu at Sherlock.

“Fine.”

“Take your coat off, you’ll be here for a few more hours.”

Sherlock sighs and shrugs his coat off while John rings and orders their food. Then he takes Sherlock’s arm and gently pulls him over to the living room window.

“What—?”

“Your brain is bored, isn’t it? Deduce them.” He makes a sweeping motion at the people passing by on the street.

Sherlock stares outside for a long moment, clearly debating whether to play along. Then he points out a man in a suit.

“Business man. Not his usual area of London. See how he’s keeping one hand carefully over his pocket? Something there he wants to keep safe. Cash or drugs, depends whether he’s on his way to or from his dealer.”

“That guy’s a druggie?” John asks. “Doesn’t look it.”

“It takes all sorts, John.”

“Do her,” John says, pointing to a woman with an animal carrier.

“On her way to the vet’s. A cat, or maybe a small dog, not hers. She’s not carrying it with much care; it’s an animal she’s not particularly fond of — maybe her boyfriend’s or her parents’. She’s been roped into the task.”

“Maybe if she learnt to get on with the animal she’d feel better.” He slides Sherlock a significant look.

“Your comparisons are heavy-handed, John.”

John shrugs. “You need to accept your wolf for your own good. You know I think that.”

Sherlock ignores him in favour of deducing more passersby. John doesn’t mind. He enjoys watching Sherlock deduce people’s backgrounds and occasionally their life stories. Sherlock’s abilities will never cease to be fascinating to him.

Their delivery driver comes and Sherlock goes downstairs to fetch it, simply to get a closer look at him, and comes upstairs telling John about his three, possibly four, cats and his ageing mother. John eats and Sherlock eats his dumplings and then John’s too. Sherlock is in the calmest and happiest mood he has been in since his attack, John thinks. It’s nice to see. He’s obviously decided to put everything aside for this evening and his head seems not to be bothering him as much. 

John considers getting out the bottle of whisky they have in the cupboard. But maybe not. The current situation — Sherlock’s horrible migraine earlier, the relaxed and happy atmosphere now — will make him want to tell Sherlock things he’s not sure he wants Sherlock to know. Of course, it’s Sherlock; he’ll find out eventually. But John’s made it this far. He’ll leave the whisky in the cupboard and delay the inevitable. Watching a Bond film is a safer option and, with Sherlock, a funnier one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It all kicks off in the next chapter, which I'll probably post on Friday or Saturday.


	3. 3

They race off on the case again the next morning, once John decides that Sherlock is rested enough. It’s a confusing web of family ties and forbidden marriages and broken deals in the criminal underworld that John can barely keep up with as Sherlock tears through it in a frankly impressive three days. When they get back home John simmers down Sherlock’s post-case high with food and tea, checks his bite wound (healing well, beginning to scar at the edges) and puts him to bed. 

John is called the next day for a week of cover at the surgery. He accepts and strategically places a few articles about Weres (sadly lacking in much information) around the flat for Sherlock to find when he wakes up. John makes a plan to spend this week leaving everything decent he can get on Weres out for Sherlock. He can read them or not, but hopefully it’ll get him thinking about accepting his wolf. It’s been sixteen days since Sherlock’s attack. Less than half a month until his first real change. It needs to be now.

 

***

 

John is leaving the clinic a few days later when an anonymous black car pulls up beside him. Mycroft really needs to leave them alone. John has deleted more emails about this stupid centre than he can count. He ignores the car and keeps walking. He can feel his mood beginning to sink and just wants to be at home with Sherlock already. The car idles alongside him. John wonders whether he can get away with walking all the way home or whether they’ll bundle him into the car and take him hostage.

He walks for a good five minutes, ignoring the car and attracting stares, until a man approaches him and offers to help him into the car. John shrugs him off and gets in the car, making sure to slam the door hard behind him. Mycroft is sitting opposite him, looking as smarmy as ever, in a three-piece pinstripe suit.

“Dr. Watson. I’m glad you decided to join me.”

“Decided is a strong word, Mycroft.” 

“We need to discuss Sherlock.”

John knows what he wants. He wants him, John, to persuade Sherlock to go into this private institution, that it’ll be the best thing for him, that everything will go horribly wrong if he doesn’t.

John sidesteps it. “His wound is healing well, he was brilliant on our last case and his headaches have been better over the past few days. What else is there to discuss? He’s fine.”

“He all but collapsed a mere week ago. I think he is far from fine.”

“We dealt with that. I know Sherlock can deal with this, but he can’t if you keep sticking your nose in.”

“The specialists he’d see are second to none.”

“He doesn’t need specialists. He has me.”

Mycroft has a way of looking at people that makes it seem like he knows ten times what he’s letting on.

“Yes, I suppose he does,” he says.

John forces himself not to clench his fist. Mycroft is a fucking nosey busybody. At least now he knows where he stands.

“So you know I can handle this.”

“Can you?” Mycroft asks. “We can’t say that your experience in this area is entirely…” He lets the sentence hang an overly long time, pushing John towards the edge. “Well, it’s not entirely positive.”

This time John’s fist does clench. Mycroft knows exactly what boundaries he’s pushing.

“You know Sherlock would escape your centre in less than a day,” John says, opting for a different route. “But me — he’d stay with me, and actually listen to me, and you know it.”

“From what I’ve been told,” Mycroft says, “Sherlock’s extra senses will be fully developed soon. Before his first change."

“Yes, they will be,” John replies.

“How do you feel about that, John?”

Who does he think he is, John’s fucking therapist?

“It won’t make much difference. He’s extremely observant anyway.”

“Maybe not that observant.”

John doesn’t have a reply, because Mycroft is right: he _is_ worried about Sherlock finally understanding his heightened senses.

“I believe this is where we let you out,” Mycroft says.

John looks out of the window. He hates Mycroft, _hates_ him. He opens the door and gets out of the car.

“You’re not taking Sherlock to that place. You’ll have to get through me first.”

He slams the door shut and marches into Regent’s Park. Mycroft had known John would be angry enough to need a walk before going home. That just makes him madder. Bloody meddling Mycroft. Finding out everyone’s secrets, deciding he knows what’s best for them without their say-so. John would love a chance to punch him in the face, but he’s not suicidal now. He keeps walking until he feels slightly less like he wants to burn everything Mycroft loves to the ground (except Sherlock), and then makes his way home.

 

***

 

Sherlock is engrossed in analysing the criminal underworld ties of their last case when John comes up the stairs.

“John! You’re later than I expected. You have to look at the way this was all set up. It’s—”

Stop. John’s anger is practically rolling off him. Sherlock briefly (nonsensically) panics — what has he done now? — but then he smells the eau de pompous git that’s still clinging to John.

“Ah. Mycroft.”

“I’m going to murder your fucking brother one of these days.”

John doesn’t usually come home angry and he’s late. The mud on his shoes indicates that he was walking in the park. Conclusion: he must have been even angrier than this, and walked it off.

Sherlock leaps up, criminal underworld forgotten for now.

“John, sit down.” He guides John to his chair, to be sure he actually will sit down. “I will make the tea.”

“You never make tea,” John says distractedly.

“I’m making tea now.”

Sherlock lingers for a moment to be sure that John is staying put, then goes to the kitchen. Making tea isn’t hard, it’s just that John does it so well, without even being asked. The kettle clicks off and Sherlock pours out the water. He briefly considers ‘accidentally’ scalding himself to give John’s doctor side something to do — it will calm him and focus him — but no, the long-term discomfort wouldn’t be worth it.

Sherlock carries the tea through and sits down opposite John. “What did he want?”

John sips his tea. “To make me persuade you to go to that stupid centre.”

There had to have been more than that, to make John so angry, but he obviously isn’t going to say.

“Don’t worry,” Sherlock says. “You wouldn’t be able to persuade me anyway.”

John remains grim-faced. Time to switch tactics.

“John?” Sherlock says after a purposeful pause. “Can you check my bite wound?”

It works. John switches straight to concerned. “Is it bleeding?”

“No.”

“Itchy? Sore? Any redness?”

“No, no. It’s fine. It just needs cleaning and redressing.”

“Oh. Of course.” Mycroft is clearly mostly forgotten now. “Okay, let’s do that.”

Sherlock is pleased. It’s so simple to distract John with his wellbeing. He knows this fact and uses it, but doesn’t think too deeply about it. He tries not to make sticky emotions his area.

They go to the bathroom and Sherlock undoes his shirt and pulls it off. He perches himself on the side of the bath while John washes his hands.

“You’ll have to shower, after,” Sherlock says. “You smell of Mycroft’s pompous stench.”

John laughs. “Your senses are improving, aren’t they?”

“I’ve been experimenting with leaving my mind palace door ajar. Under careful watch.”

“That’s good. That’s a step forwards,” John says.

He kneels down beside Sherlock and carefully peels off the dressing. John wants him to do more to accept his wolf, but he’s not risking all his mental faculties turning animalistic. This will have to be enough for now.

John cleans Sherlock’s wound, and checks the edges of it, which are starting to scar over. His fingers are gentle on Sherlock’s skin, slightly chilled from outside, slightly warmed from his mug of tea. Sherlock doesn’t like doctors touching him, doesn’t like them in general. But John is different. His touch is soothing, and Sherlock can see it soothes John as well, which makes it even better.

“How is your head? Is leaving the door open helping?”

“It’s better.”

“You can’t live with a headache forever. Not with a brain like yours.”

Sherlock sighs. John is right. Headaches make him fuzzy-brained. He can’t think straight; his mind stagnates. He can’t stand stagnation. He understands theoretically that he should accept his wolf, but at what cost? What changes to his intelligence?

John redresses the wound and slides his hand gently over Sherlock’s side. “There.”

He’s not angry anymore. Sherlock smiles a real smile down at him and John smiles back.

 

***

 

It’s getting closer and closer to Sherlock’s first change. It’s been exactly three weeks since he was bitten, and the full moon was a few days before that, meaning he will have to change in six days. Knowing Mycroft, he will try something soon to get Sherlock under his observation and control. He needs to be on guard, but the wolf besieging his mind palace is getting more active as the moon waxes. It’s incredibly distracting. Sherlock is having to spend more and more time each day sitting at the door of his mind palace, calming it.

John is getting more anxious too. Sherlock puts that down to worry about him — John wants him to be much more accepting of the wolf — and the lingering threat of Mycroft. John smells different to him now, just slightly. Sherlock wonders if he can smell emotions now, if the wolf is picking up John’s anxiousness.

“Sherlock.”

John’s expression says that he’s already said Sherlock’s name a few times, unheard.

“I’m going out. There are leftovers in the fridge. Please remember to eat something. Don’t bother waiting up for me.”

Evening already? The day has slipped away without him noticing.

“Sherlock?”

“Yes, John.”

“Good. Great.” John pulls on his jacket and shoes. “I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

“Mmm…”

Sherlock retreats back into his mind palace. A headache is threatening so he’ll spend some time sitting at the door with the wolf. It keeps the headaches at bay.

 

***

 

Sherlock reemerges to hear John coming up the stairs — _staggering_ might be a better word. He’s probably drunk.

John stumbles into the flat and Sherlock can immediately see that he’s been in a fight. Pub punch up? No, he’s not actually drunk. And his injuries — that Sherlock can see — aren’t consistent with pub fights. No black eyes. A set of parallel scratches running down his neck. His limp is pronounced. No bruises at all. What fight has he been in, if not a pub brawl? Why is his top on inside out? Why is Sherlock’s wolf insistent on telling him something about John’s scent? He’s anxious, in pain. He’s— 

Oh.

Why didn’t he see before? John’s knowledge about Weres. From uni and Afghanistan, yes, but that was only a half truth. He’d known what to do when Sherlock was bitten. He’d known when the next full moon would be. He’d hesitated over saying that he’d looked it up. He’d laughed at Sherlock when he’d said people should notice if their friends were Weres. John had argued with Mycroft. Mycroft had implied…

Sherlock’s been an idiot.

“John,” Sherlock gasps.

John looks up. He hadn’t realised that Sherlock was still awake. Sherlock stares at him.

“Oh, fuck,” says John, understanding.

Sherlock sees John begin to panic and decides distraction is necessary. “John, you’re injured.”

“I— Not very much.”

“You’re bleeding.” Sherlock gets up to shepherd John to the bathroom. John doesn’t resist.

“I… You… I didn’t…”

“Shh,” says Sherlock. “No talking until I’ve cleaned you up.”

He sits John on the edge of the bath and fetches the first aid kit.

“What else is injured besides your neck?” he asks.

“You said no talking,” John says.

Sherlock tuts at him. “Take your top off so I can clean this properly.”

How funny that their usual positions are reversed. John pulls off his top. His hands are fine — knuckles not bruised or scraped. But then that’s because his fists had been paws.

Sherlock cleans the cuts on John’s neck. John winces at the sting.

“This wasn’t meant to happen,” he says.

“Of course you didn’t mean to get attacked and injured,” Sherlock replies.

“No, I mean you weren’t meant to… find out.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, John, but as a Were…” Sherlock pauses, considering the pronoun he’ll use next. “As a Were, one can scent other Weres.”

“Yeah,” John says. His eyes are closed.

Sherlock studies the scratches on John’s neck and decides they’ll only need a little gauze taped over them.

“So as soon as I was bitten you knew I’d find out sooner or later. Why not just tell me?”

John is silent for a long time as Sherlock finishes taping the gauze.

“Delaying the inevitable,” he finally says.

John’s logic is perplexing sometimes. “What inevitable?”

“Us… Things… changing. And not in a good way.”

“But don’t you see, John? This is perfect. You know so much more than you’ve been telling me.”

“I’ve lied to you ever since I met you. You said flatmates should know the worst about each other and I didn’t tell you.”

“And I didn’t tell you about the body parts in the fridge.”

“Aren’t you angry with me for deceiving you for so long?”

John’s eyes are still closed. He doesn’t do emotions well. He’s worried about something.

“Angry? I’m impressed.”

John’s eyes open. He shouldn’t be surprised — he knows Sherlock — but he is.

“John, why are you worried that I’ll throw you out?”

It’s a shot in the dark, but John’s face tells him that he’s hit the mark.

John sighs heavily. “I don’t know.”

Too much vulnerability, for both of them. Time to move away from it.

“Are you hurt anywhere else?”

“Bruises. Nothing you can treat.”

“No bites? No scratches?”

“I know how to fight, Sherlock.”

“I don’t doubt that, but I’m reasonably sure you were outnumbered.”

“Foreign pack,” John says. “London’s full of them. Very aggressive. It’s a completely different culture, where they’re from.” He pauses to think, absently fingers the gauze on his neck. “London isn’t the best place for a Were. What are we going to do with you?”

“There’s still a week left to figure that out. Why did you change early?”

“I need to be with you at the full moon. And I need— needed you not to know.”

“Too late for that,” Sherlock says.

“I hope Mycroft stops dropping elephant-sized hints that he knows about me now.”

Mycroft would have run a background check on John when he came into Sherlock’s life. John’s attack must have already happened, in Afghanistan, or possibly very shortly after he arrived in London. He wasn’t born this way. Mycroft said that some people become suicidal once changed. Now that Sherlock knows what he knows, Mycroft’s look and John’s anger speak volumes. It may be better not to bring up John’s attack. Too many messy emotions.

John is calmer now, reassured that Sherlock is fine with his secret.

“You look tired,” Sherlock tells him.

“So do you,” John counters.

Sherlock narrows his eyes, pulls an exaggerated face as he considers. “I’ll make you a deal,” he says.

John grins. He loves their childish moments.

So does Sherlock. “If you sleep eight hours,” he says, “I’ll sleep four.”

“No deal,” John replies. “Half isn’t good enough. And how do I know you won’t cheat?”

“I never cheat,” Sherlock says grandly.

John snorts. “You sound like your brother with that voice.”

Sherlock gasps, affronted. John dashes out of the bathroom before Sherlock can get him and Sherlock races after him. John has shorter legs, but also a head start and the element of surprise, so he reaches his bedroom and shuts himself safely in before Sherlock reaches him. Sherlock hears him slide down to sit with his back against the door.

“I’ll get you, John Watson,” he says.

John’s reply is a giggle.

“The deal’s off,” Sherlock says.

“It was never on,” John replies.

Sherlock smiles. They both know he’ll sleep anyway.

“Goodnight, Sherlock,” John says. Sherlock can hear the smile in his voice.

“Goodnight, John.”

 

***

 

John leaves early for work the next morning, before Sherlock is awake. Instead of the usual substandard articles and poorly researched medical journals that he’s been leaving for Sherlock all this week, he leaves a document open on Sherlock’s laptop:

> _Morning Sherlock. (Or afternoon? I’m pleased to see you sleeping.)  
>  Now that you know, I can tell you what I’ve wanted to tell you ever since our walk in that park, but couldn’t without you finding out.  
>  I know you’re most worried about what letting your Were in will mean for your mind, and I understand that. I would’ve been worried too, but I didn’t get much choice._

Sherlock can imagine John hesitating over that last bit of information, deciding whether to leave it in or not.

> _It’s impressive that you’ve got so far without letting your wolf in. I guess you have your mind palace to thank for that. But you’ve seen what happens when you try to keep it out. You don’t want migraines every week. You have to accept that your wolf is a part of who you are now. You are a Were.  
>  Your senses are starting to work together with its senses. It was obvious last night that you’re starting to take in the information that your wolf is giving you. Which is good. It’s a great step forward. How is your head today? I bet it’s better. The headaches will stop completely as soon as you’re not setting the two parts of yourself against each other._

As he always is when it comes to Sherlock’s health, John is right. His headache is so quiet now he’d forgotten to notice it.

> _Your wolf won’t be quiet though._ (It isn’t.) _We’re getting closer to the full moon. That’s normal, but the more months you go through with your Were, the more manageable it gets. You’ll want to follow your instincts more, though, and you’ll itch to get out and run. I don’t think that’ll sit well with your rational side right now, but it will get better._  
>  I promise you that, mentally, I am the same person I was before I was bitten. My wolf has changed me physically, just like yours has changed you. You’ll notice more stamina, you’ll be more sensitive to smells. Mentally, you’ll become more observant when you accept your wolf. You’ve felt it happening already. You’ll recognise other Weres instinctively. You’ll be more in tune with emotions, yours and others’.  
>  You’ll always feel your wolf as a presence in the back of your mind. But if you’ll accept it, it will keep quiet, unless the moon is nearly full, or unless you deliberately call it out. It feels foreign to begin with, but if you take it in, your brain will recognise it as your own and it will be close to unnoticeable.  
>  Not so bad, right? I know you only have my word for it, but accepting your wolf will be so much better than rejecting it, trust me.  
>  Please try and work on it. We don’t have long.  
>  Don’t forget to eat something. Have a good day.  
>  John.

Sherlock saves a copy of the letter to his mind palace before he deletes it from his laptop.

He trusts John with his life, but trusting him with his mind seems harder, somehow. But John wouldn’t lie to him about this. John knows how important his mind is to him.

He makes himself toast, but hardly registers eating it. Then he visits his mind palace to go over John’s letter. All the evidence says that he should accept his wolf. John is more of an expert in this field than Sherlock had thought, and he is also the only person Sherlock trusts to interpret that expertise in his own situation.

He texts John.

> I imagine it won’t be easy to accept my wolf now. SH

It takes ten minutes for a reply to come through.

> It might be angry with you for taking so long. But your wolf is you. You’re the boss.

> If my mind is corrupted I’m holding you fully responsible. SH

> It won’t be. Go build that kennel.

Sherlock tuts at his phone. No kennels will be involved. Another text comes through.

> P.S. You made the right decision :)

He puts down his phone with a sigh, and retreats to his mind palace.


	4. 4

“God, you’ll wear a hole in the floor if you keep pacing like that,” John complains the next day.

“It’s been a week since I had a case,” Sherlock replies. “The wolf wants to run.”

“I told you they get more anxious near the full moon. Only a few days to go now.”

Sherlock groans. “That’s a few days too many.”

“Go for a run. Mindless activity can keep your wolf calm.”

Sherlock grimaces. The idea of running without a chase could not seem more purposeless. 

“I know you don’t want to,” John says. “But your wolf will thank you for it.”

“Fine, fine. I’m going.”

Sherlock goes to his room to change, then leaves quickly, barely bidding goodbye to John. His wolf is perking up at the idea of activity before Sherlock even starts running.

He sets out at a jog, not paying much attention to the direction he chooses. He lets the wolf set the pace.

Having the wolf inside his head isn’t so bad. Just different. It mostly paces around the corridors of his mind palace and fidgets at his inactivity. Today it’s been very insistent that he _do_ something. Its instincts are playing with his transport too. He actually has to eat and sleep.

He wonders what it’ll be like to be in wolf form. John hasn’t said anything about it. Will he be in control? Or will it be the wolf in control? But he _is_ the wolf. And yet they’re different.

John said that London isn’t the best place for Weres. There are too many violent foreign packs to bump into. John was attacked, although his neck is healing well. It’s clear that he doesn’t want Sherlock’s first change to be in London, but he doesn’t seem to have any other plans.

Sherlock doesn’t know why, but the wolf is thinking about Mycroft. It’s true that he’s been very quiet since he picked John up from work. Unusual for him.

The wolf seems satisfied with the run. Sherlock starts to look around at where he is, then decides to trust the wolf to navigate him home. He glances at his watch. He’s been running for longer than he expected, but he’s only just beginning to feel fatigued. The extra stamina the wolf brings is very welcome.

_Danger! Watch out!_

Sherlock hears it as clearly as if someone were shouting in his head. The wolf, noticing something. A scent. 

No!

Synthetic, sterile clothing, cleaning fluids that can remove blood. Sherlock has met some of the men who do Mycroft’s heavier legwork. He has no desire to meet them again.

He continues jogging homewards, keeping his outward appearance calm. He can see them now. Three, strategically surrounding him. Backup will be waiting in a car nearby. The only cards he holds at the moment are his knowledge of London and the fact that they don’t know he’s seen them. Yet. After a quick scan of his mental map of London, he takes a sharp turn down a side street. A quick glance over his shoulder confirms that they’re openly chasing him now.

A left, a left, a right, a leap through a gaping hole in a fence. Sherlock hasn’t tested the limits of his newly-gained stamina, and the bite on his side is burning. _Come on, wolf,_ he thinks. _Don’t give up on me now._

His pursuers are still too close. He needs to lose them before he can get to safety. More quick turns, ever narrowing streets. A quick dash through the front and out the back of a shop. Not far now.

A final sprint to cover the next few corners before Mycroft’s men catch up and see where he’s headed. His wolf wants to stop now and breathe, but he forces his body on. There’s the door! No one is behind him. He skids to a halt and slips inside.

Mycroft doesn’t know about this place. He bolts the door. No one knows about this place except Sherlock. An empty back-alley-entrance flat, dingy and shabby, but perfect as a hideout. He has a few disguises stashed here, an untraceable pay-as-you-go phone. He used to keep drugs here, but that was before John. 

Sherlock peeks out from behind the heavy curtain just as his pursuers run past. Good. His wolf relaxes — he hadn’t realised quite how tense they’d both been. He sits down against the wall and switches his phone off. There’s a gap here in the plasterboard wall where the throwaway phone is stored. He pulls it out. He’s memorised John’s number.

“Hello?”

“John. Can’t talk for long.”

“Sherlock? Are you okay? You’re out of breath. Whose phone is this?”

“Less talking, more listening. Mycroft’s men just attempted to catch me, probably to whisk me off to that centre, but I’m safe now. I’m not sure when I’ll be able to come home. They’re probably watching the flat. You know what to do, yes?”

“Stargazing, yeah. Jesus, Sherlock, stay in touch, okay?”

“I have to go now, John.”

He hangs up. He won’t risk calling John from the same number again, in case Mycroft is monitoring John’s incoming calls. It’s good that John recalled Stargazing unprompted. It was Sherlock’s concept, but John named it, a poke at Sherlock’s lack of astronomical knowledge.

He switches off the phone and puts it back in its hiding place. He’ll wait them out for a while, and hope that the agents watching the Baker Street flat lower their guard a little with time.

  
  
***  
  


Midnight is already a long time after the mid-afternoon chase, but he decides to wait a little longer. It’s not worth getting caught. Besides, his wolf and his body are more than happy to rest up after the earlier exertion.

At half past three in the morning, he changes into one of his disguises — an old man’s soft sweater and shabby hat. Underneath he puts on all black clothing. His clothes tucked into the old man’s ratty carpet bag, he heads out, closing up his hideout.

An old man with age-related insomnia out for a walk. Nothing unusual there. The slow, dragging pace he has to go at frustrates him, but he can’t break character. It takes him half an hour to make his way to Baker Street. He doesn’t enter the street itself. A few streets away is a rusted fire escape. At the top of that, he strips off the disguise so he’s in all black; then it’s a leap across to a ledge on the building opposite and a scramble up to the roof, and he has a clear shot, a simple run with a few jumps to reach 221 Baker Street.

John’s room has a skylight, and he’s left it wide open, per Stargazing. Sherlock shimmies through feet first and drops down.

John is waiting for him, awake despite the late hour.

“Jesus Christ, Sherlock, finally! Are you alright?” John scans his body.

“I’m fine. Didn’t fall off a roof.”

“That might be preferable to being kidnapped by your brother and thrown in a _specialist_ centre.” Sherlock hears the condescension on ‘specialist’. John is angry. Very angry.

“He didn’t get me. You were right about accepting it, John.”

“Of course I was.” John starts pacing. “We need to do something about your brother. He’s persistent. If he’s tried this once he’ll try it again. We can’t have you going to that place.”

Sherlock understands now that Mycroft insinuating that John was a Were had been what angered him before, but even now that Sherlock knows, John is still furious with Mycroft on Sherlock’s behalf.

“I want that as little as you do,” he tries to reassure him. “John, sit down.”

John ignores him. “I’ll go and see him first thing in the morning and let him know exactly what we think of him and his specialist fucking centre.”

“John. The danger’s over. Sit down with me.”

He sits down on John’s bed and pats the mattress. He’s helpless in the face of John’s anger. His wolf feels it too, and is pacing, agitated.

John’s wolf must be intensifying his feelings too. On his next pass, Sherlock grabs John’s arm and pulls him to sit down on the bed. He grips his arms.

“Stop, John. I’m home now.”

John finally snaps out of it. “I’m sorry. But I’m still going to have it out with your brother. What he tried to do was not right at all.”

“If you want to have an argument with Mycroft then you’ll need all your faculties. It’s late. Get some sleep.”

John seems reluctant. “I can’t. I can never sleep when my wolf is upset.”

“What will calm it down?”

“Just… Can you… stay here for a bit, so it knows you’re safe?”

“Of course.”

John is dressed for bed; he was only waiting up for Sherlock. He settles himself under the covers, facing out towards the room as he always does. Sherlock moves to sit at John’s desk. The only light in the room comes from the open skylight. John closes his eyes, then opens them to look at Sherlock, then closes them again. Sherlock feels his wolf calm as John calms. Why must his wolf be so in sync with these sticky emotions?

Patiently, he waits for John to fall asleep, then closes the skylight and tiptoes downstairs, but not to his room. He’s no longer tired after napping in the hideout, and if John wakes up to find Sherlock missing he’ll panic. He picks up his violin and begins to play.

  
  
***  
  


John wakes early the next morning despite the late night. He slept well; Sherlock’s violin had played through his dreams, soothing him. The flat is silent now. He gets ready for the day, pausing to look into Sherlock’s room. He’s fast asleep, sprawled on his front, hair wild. John smiles, quietly closes Sherlock’s door, and goes out.

He catches a cab to Mycroft’s office, his anger welling up more the closer he gets. On arrival, he’s waved straight through, as if he’s expected, which he bloody well ought to be after the stunt that Mycroft pulled yesterday.

“Dr. Watson, do sit down,” Mycroft says smoothly when John enters his office.

He sits, on the edge of his chair, and rests his hands on his knees. That way he can stop himself punching Mycroft.

“I assume you’re here about yesterday’s fiasco.”

He glowers at the pretence. Mycroft knows damn well that’s what he’s here about. “You need to stop trying to make Sherlock’s decisions for him. Maybe once he needed that, but he doesn’t anymore.”

“I only want what’s best for my brother.”

“So do I. And what’s best for anyone going through their first change is the smallest amount of stress possible. Sherlock would never be happy in a specialist centre. He’d be out of his mind with boredom.”

Mycroft tries to interrupt, but John talks right over him.

“Take it from someone who knows, Sherlock does not need strange, unfamiliar people who don’t know him during his change. He needs what he knows. You being constantly on his back about this is helping absolutely nothing, so if you really want what’s best for him you will fuck the fuck off and let me handle it.”

He stands up. Mycroft is, shockingly, silent. After a few seconds of staring him down, John leaves, banging the door behind him.

  
  
***  
  


John comes home angry again, but triumphant. Sherlock doesn’t know what’s happened between him and Mycroft, but he’s bristling with determination. He was gone when Sherlock woke up. Sherlock wanted to go for a run, to calm his wolf, but he’s not stupid — he knows how foolish that would be now.

John gets his laptop and spends the rest of the morning on it. After lunch (and force-feeding Sherlock a sandwich) he moves onto Sherlock’s bookshelves, pulling out maps and guidebooks from old cases. He’s planning something.

“Are you trying to blow up Mycroft’s country mansion?” Sherlock asks in the evening.

John laughs. “That might be fun, but no. Dinner?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Liar. I bet your wolf would love some red meat right now. Mine would.”

Sherlock’s wolf is, in fact, very interested in the possibility of red meat, but more than that, it’s sick of inactivity.

“Maybe it would,” Sherlock concedes. “But what it mostly wants is to go out.”

“We can’t be sure that Mycroft has called his men off,” John replies, “but I promise we’ll go out tomorrow. Shall we order from Angelo’s?”

“Fine.”

John’s planning today must be for tomorrow. He’s promised they’ll go out, and Sherlock is sure that he means more than just a stroll around London. They eat and Sherlock goes to bed much earlier than usual to soothe his wolf, wondering what tomorrow will bring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next update Thursday or Friday!
> 
> hannahrrrr.tumblr.com


	5. 5

John wakes him the next morning. It’s half nine already, later than he’d expected. He blames his wolf, who keeps sleeping ridiculously long hours.

“How do you want your eggs?” John asks.

He rubs the sleep out of his eyes. John makes eggs for breakfast on days that will be long and busy. What has he planned?

“Scrambled,” Sherlock replies, then goes to shower.

When he emerges, freshly washed and dressed, breakfast is ready. John is calm as they eat, quietly confident about whatever’s ahead. When they’ve finished, John tells him to pack a suitcase for one week, possibly two.

“Sensible clothes and shoes,” he says. “Not all fancy suits and expensive leather.”

Some physical exertion is in store, then. Sherlock packs sports clothes and trainers (originally from his boxing days, now kept for disguises). His violin is permitted, but John refuses to allow him his laptop. Their phones will be left behind too.

“We’re going under the radar?” Sherlock asks.

“As much as we possibly can.”

Everything packed, they head to King’s Cross. At the ticket window, John buys two tickets up to Scotland, to his father’s home town. The train leaves in an hour. Sherlock frowns as he pays by card. Is he an idiot? This isn’t under the radar.

John notices his expression. “Just wait,” he says.

They collect their tickets. Then John leads them over to another ticket window, where he buys tickets that will take them just outside London. This time he pays in cash. Sherlock understands now.

“A diversion,” he says.

John is reading the departure screen. “Our train leaves in three minutes from the other side of the station. Are you ready to run?”

He grins and takes off. Sherlock follows closely behind him. He’s put some thought into this. They’re shaking off tails both physical and digital.

They make it onto the train seconds before the doors close. As they settle into their seats, John’s eyes are shining with the same satisfaction Sherlock feels.

The ride takes them out to Greater London. They get off at an insignificant stop even Sherlock has never heard of, with no connecting lines. Surely they’re going farther than this?

“Do you think Mycroft’s CCTV jurisdiction extends this far?” John asks, as they exit the station. “I hoped this would be far enough.”

“Mycroft’s jurisdiction extends where he wants it to,” Sherlock replies, “but it will take him some time to find out which town’s cameras to requisition.”

“We should be gone by then,” John says.

The train station is at the edge of the town, not far from its industrial estate. This is where John leads them. 

“I had some mates from here who I visited when we were on leave,” John explains. “I know the area fairly well.”

Where are they going from here? And how? Is John calling in favours from old friends?

Their destination turns out to be a dodgy-looking car rental place. John asks to use their phone and is led through to the office. This seems like the kind of place where no questions are asked, which is probably why John chose it, as part of staying under the radar. After his phone call is completed, Sherlock watches John talk to the man who appears to be boss through the office window. John is holding himself straight and tense, in his soldier position. Words are exchanged, then a substantial amount of cash is exchanged, then John is handed the car keys.

“Do you think Mycroft’s men are in Scotland yet?” he asks Sherlock cheerily as he leaves the office.

“Based off just the train tickets?”

“And my internet history all of yesterday morning. The B&B looked lovely, but we won’t be turning up there.”

Sherlock feels almost proud of the lengths John is going to to hide him from Mycroft.

Their car looks a bit worse for wear and has many miles on the clock, but it’s perfectly serviceable.

“So where are we really going?” Sherlock asks as they get in.

“The opposite direction,” John answers. “South.”

“Cornwall?” That’s the farthest south they can get from London.

“No. Sussex.”

John drives. As much as he can he avoids the main roads around London, sticking to B-roads, although it’s highly unlikely that anyone will know they’re in this car.

At lunchtime he refuses to stop off at a service station, instead dragging Sherlock out of the car and into a shabby café. Sherlock doesn’t want to eat but John makes him have a slice of toast. The tea there tastes like piss, so he opts for weak coffee instead. He sips at it and watches John eat his bacon sandwich.

“Why are you doing this?” he asks.

John frowns at him, surprised to be asked. “Why? You couldn’t have your first change in that centre, or with Mycroft breathing down your neck. We needed to get you out of London.”

Sherlock considers this. “I take it your first change wasn’t a good experience.”

“No,” John replies shortly. They’re silent for a while. “Yours will be better.”

“I’m sure.” He is. John will make it so.

After another half an hour of driving, they pull off the motorway and into a medium-sized town. John drives around until he finds a newsagent’s. When he comes back to the car he has two phones, bricks, only good for the basics. He hands them to Sherlock.

“Activate these and add their numbers to each other,” he says.

The task is not as simple as it appears. Sherlock almost gets frustrated enough to throw the phones out of the window and into a B-road hedge. 

John glances at him. “Do we need to stop again? Let you stretch your legs?”

The first phone beeps. Connected to the network.

“Finally! No, we don’t need to stop. We’re almost there, aren’t we?”

“Your definition of almost is very different to mine,” John says.

Sherlock grumbles and jabs at the second phone to get it to connect. John swear colourfully at a driver who cuts him up.

“We can stop and let you out for a run,” he offers.

Sherlock shoots him a death glare that John doesn’t fully appreciate because he’s looking at the road. “I’m not a dog.”

“Well,” is all John replies.

  
  
***  
  


In the late afternoon they arrive where they’ll be staying: a charming holiday cottage on the Sussex coast. It’s isolated, with its own path down to a cove and a sweeping mass of land behind it. They meet the owner there. John pays the deposit in cash. Sherlock has to admire the effort he’s put into this. This must have been the reason for the phone call he made from the car rental office. After, the owner gives them a cursory tour. The cottage is a mix of cosy, modern, basic and rustic, like a countryside version of 221B, but with less mess. He imagines John didn’t have much choice in picking it, but luck, if luck exists, seems to have thrown them the perfect place.

The owner leaves.

“What now?” asks Sherlock. The full moon is the day after tomorrow. Suddenly it seems an age away.

John is bringing in their bags. “Let’s go into town and get some food.”

“When can I change?” John changed early.

“Not until the full moon. Any sooner will be too difficult for you.”

His wolf doesn’t think that’s soon enough. What are they going to do here for two days? They’re in the middle of nowhere.

“I know your wolf wants to change now,” John says, “but if you dare try by yourself I will ruin all your experiments, and I won’t join you on any crime scenes for at least six months.”

John is not one for idle threats. He means this. Sherlock pouts to express his annoyance and goes to explore the cottage instead.

Upstairs there are two bedrooms, one on the sea side of the cottage and one on the land side. Sherlock takes the bedroom at the back, the land side. It’s smaller, but cosier. He isn’t planning to sleep much anyway. From its windows he can see the land rising up into the woods at the top of the hill. No signs of civilisation. This will be the perfect spot for them to change. Plenty of space, and no chance of being seen. Might Weres be more widely known and accepted in the countryside? Or more feared because of the potential threat to livestock? Does one hunt when in wolf form?

He goes back downstairs to announce that he’ll take the back bedroom. John will like the sea side bedroom. It has a desk he can write at and a large bay window with a window seat and a view along the coast.

“Are you ready?” John asks. “We’re going to walk into town.”

There’s logic behind John’s decision. Both their wolves are anxious this close to the full moon, keen to run, and the long walk to and from town will satisfy them a little. 

“I looked at the map,” John says, as he puts money and the cottage keys and his phone into a rucksack. “We can take the coast path and it’ll get us almost all the way into town.”

Sherlock pockets his own phone. “Let’s go,” he says.

It’ll be good to get some exercise.

  
  
***  
  


The town is very small, almost a village, but it does have a small Tesco. John gives Sherlock some of his cash and sends him to the local butcher’s before they close for bacon and eggs. He finds John after, in the Tesco, and eyes the contents of his basket.

“How long are we staying for again?” he asks, one eyebrow raised.

“Trust me,” John says, picking out a jar of jam from the small selection. “Changing makes you hungry. Very hungry.”

“There’s enough for a month there.”

John grins. “You may surprise yourself.”

Sherlock frowns, silenced. John pays for the frankly astounding amount of shopping and manages to fit almost all of it into the rucksack, leaving just two bags to carry.

“I’m knackered,” John says as they leave, the staff locking up behind them. “Will you be cooking tonight?”

Sherlock pulls a face. Although he can cook a few meals, it reminds him far too much of enforced lessons in his childhood house. Mycroft preferred baking, Sherlock preferred none of it.

“I didn’t think so,” John sighs. “Pub then?”

“I’m not very hungry.”

“We both know you’ll steal my chips the second they’re placed in front of me,” John replies, and leads them to the town’s only pub.

John has beer, brewed locally. Sherlock, who has never quite understood drinking alcohol for the sake of it, orders a fruit juice. He accepts that hydration is important for the correct functioning of his brain.

They sit in a back corner. The pub is small, dark in a cosy sort of way, and slowly filling with locals for the night. There’s an approaching chill in the air. As they sip their drinks, a staff members lights the fire. Sherlock is warm and his wolf is calm. The day after tomorrow he’ll be changing into wolf form. 

“What’s it like, John?”

John doesn’t ask what he means. This is the one bit they haven’t talked about in detail.

“What do you think it will be like?” he counters.

What a frustrating way to go about answering the question.

“When I was first bitten,” Sherlock says, feeling his way, “it was… disorientating. It felt like I was drunk. I didn’t like it.”

“You won’t have that this time,” John says. “Your body has got used to your wolf. You’ll instinctively know what to do in wolf form. What else?”

He hazards a guess. “Uncontrolled. Now, in this body, I’m in control but in the wolf form I won’t be.”

“You might be surprised,” John says. “You’ll naturally take a back seat and let the wolf do its thing, but if it tries anything you don’t like, you can take over. You have the final say. But it can be fun just letting your wolf take off to do what it likes.”

Sherlock nods. Control is important to him. Even with cocaine, he was the one administering it. He had found the perfect 7% solution that only sharpened and enhanced his mind. But when he’d slipped into an overdose and lost control that had been… not good.

While Sherlock was lost in thought, John had ordered them both food.

“Sherlock? Sherlock. You’re brooding.”

“Thinking,” he replies, blinking himself out of it.

“No other questions?”

“The change itself. How is it?”

“Painful. Harder than you’d expect. We’ll go over it in detail before though, don’t worry.”

“I won’t,” Sherlock says. “I have you and you know what you’re doing.”

John smiles. Their meals arrive and John gestures at Sherlock’s. “Look, you have your own chips. You don’t have to nick mine.”

“That’s not the point,” he says, offended. Obviously the chips are better stolen from John’s plate. John must know this.

When they’re done, John’s meal finished and Sherlock’s picked at, John asks the bar if he can borrow a torch for their walk home in the dark. He promises to return it in a few days.

“Why don’t we just change?” Sherlock asks once they’re outside. “We’ll have better vision and surer footing in our wolf forms.”

“Not until the full moon,” John says. He flicks on the torch when they leave the outer limits of the town’s streetlights.

“Fine, but you could. You could guide me.”

“Someone has to carry this rucksack.”

“I’ll see you in your wolf form eventually, John.”

“Yes, you will,” John agrees. “But not tonight.”

The walk back to the cottage along the coast path takes longer in the dark. Sherlock has to keep putting a hand out to steady himself on John’s shoulder, the bags he’s carrying tipping him off balance. John is always there to right him. 

They put the shopping away once they’re back. Sherlock had enjoyed the cosy atmosphere at the pub — it made him feel warm and enclosed, and settled his wolf too — and he wants to replicate it now, so he starts filling the fireplace with wood and kindling.

“I didn’t know you could lay a fire,” John says.

“I’ve loved fire since a young age.”

“That’s not surprising,” John grins.

“I got my first Bunsen burner at eight, but creating fire by hand with wood and paper always seemed more appealing than opening a tap.”

He sets the paper alight with a box of matches beside the fireplace and sits watching to make sure the kindling will catch. It does, and Sherlock feels that warm little glow inside himself.

“Very nice,” says John. He hands Sherlock a glass of whisky before settling into an armchair by the fire.

“You didn’t get this in Tesco,” Sherlock says. “You must have gone to a different shop while I was in the butcher’s.”

“Correct,” says John. He looks pleased with himself. “I noticed the cheesemonger’s had proper Scotch whisky on the back shelf and I thought I’d get us something nice. A treat.”

Sherlock takes a sip of the whisky. It’s good, slips down his throat with ease, burns pleasantly afterwards.

He narrows his eyes at John as a thought occurs. “This isn’t to numb the pain of the change, is it?” He knows so little.

John laughs. “No, changing when slightly drunk would be a bad idea. You need to be completely focused. Especially the first time.”

He leans back against the side of John’s armchair and closes his eyes. He likes it here a lot. Mycroft won’t find them. He has warmth and isolation and John’s companionship. There may not be any murders, but for now everything is just fine.

  
  
***  
  


John nudges Sherlock awake from his catnap against the armchair when he decides to go to bed. Sherlock refuses to come upstairs and sleep properly, which John expected. Knowing the odd hours he keeps, he’ll probably crawl into bed at three or four in the morning. John bids him goodnight and goes up to his room. He climbs into bed, leaving the curtains open. The only lights outside are distant twinkles of boats out to sea. So different to London and its light pollution.

He hears Sherlock downstairs, rustling through some papers, then starting up a melody on his violin. He pauses frequently, plays and replays certain snatches. He must be composing. John wonders if the cottage is his inspiration; the tune is low, slow, smooth, comforting. If that’s how the cottage makes Sherlock feel then he is very glad that he went to the trouble of getting them here.

  
  
***  
  


John wakes softly in the morning, rising with the sun as it spills through the bedroom window. A quick glance into the other bedroom reveals Sherlock asleep at last, sprawled out over his pillow, shoved beneath him lengthways. John pads downstairs to make himself breakfast. Sherlock won’t be up for a few hours yet.

He sips his tea standing at the open back door. The morning air is cold and crisp; the grass is wet, sparkling with dew. Outside there’s a small patio and a patch of garden with flower beds. John wonders how much of the land behind belongs to the cottage. There’s no fence or hedge or divide to show him. Does it extend all the way up to the woods on the hill?

Behind him he hears shuffling and a yawn. The kettle is clicked on again.

“I didn’t think you’d be up this early,” he says without turning.

“Mmm,” Sherlock replies, sleepy and low.

He comes to stand with John in the doorway, pulling his dressing gown tighter around himself. “What are we doing today?”

“Explore? We can scout out some places to run in tomorrow.”

Sherlock looks up. The moon is still visible in the early morning sky. It’s only the thinnest whisker away from full.

“I need to return the torch to the pub, too,” John continues. “I’ll buy a couple for us in town while I’m there.”

The kettle boils and clicks off. Sherlock stays standing in the doorway for a moment longer.

“Not too boring?” John asks. Aside from the change, his one biggest concern is that Sherlock will go mad with boredom here.

“No,” Sherlock replies. “I want to go down to the cove too.”

“Of course.”

He moves away to make his tea. John stays standing at the door for a few more seconds before he retreats into the cottage, pulling the door shut behind him.


	6. 6

They decide to start at the top of the hill and work their way down. They climb up to the trees at the top. After walking through the trees for a few minutes, Sherlock suddenly gasps and dashes ahead. John wonders what could have him so excited. There’s not a dead body up here, is there?

“John! Beehives!”

He catches up to find a few beehives scattered around a small clearing.

“Bees, John!”

Sherlock is rushing about, examining the square white hives. His childish enthusiasm is intoxicating. John grins.

Suddenly Sherlock’s face drops. “They’re empty. I could bring the bees back.”

“I’m sure you could.”

“When I retire that’s what I’ll do. I’ll keep bees and study them. And you can grow flowers for them, and we’ll do experiments on the effects of different kinds of flowers on the taste of honey.”

John is struck by that. He imagines that not too long ago Sherlock didn’t consider his future important enough to warrant making plans, much like John. And yet here he is, stating his plans, including John in them, like it’s the most natural thing. 

“John?” Sherlock stops his manic rush of energy and looks over at John, standing still and shocked.

“You plan to do that? To retire with me?” Shouldn’t he be worried or upset that Sherlock has decided his future without consulting him? He can’t bring himself to be.

“Of course,” Sherlock says. “You’ll be there. Unless you find a wife to settle down with.” Sherlock pulls a face which eloquently expresses his distaste for that idea.

“I… don’t think I will,” he answers slowly. 

Dating hasn’t been that successful lately, and when Sherlock states things like that and John finds himself looking forward to them, he can see why. Nor has he missed dating. He has plenty of fun and excitement in his life with Sherlock; the rest he can take care of himself. Nor does he miss romance. He knows why, but he doesn’t think about that. His therapist might have something to say to that. But it’s fine. It’s all fine.

“John?”

Sherlock looks unsure, like he does when he knows he’s overstepped some unspoken social boundary and needs John’s help finding it. John decides to shift the topic of conversation.

“Tell me about the bees.”

Sherlock drags him closer to the hives to tell him all about bees, how they live, how they make honey, and all sorts of other interesting facts. His rambling talk keeps them going as they continue to make their way through the trees and come up against the fence on the other side that marks the back perimeter of the cottage’s land. On their way back down the hill Sherlock tells John about the language of bees, their communicative dances, complex yet simple, sharing the direction and distance of pollen sources. He runs out of steam once they reach the cottage. John finds himself in the kitchen making sandwiches for their lunch with many fresh ideas of what to buy Sherlock for his birthday and Christmas.

They pack the sandwiches in a bag and take the path that leads down to the cove. The sand is rough and grainy.

Sherlock slips off his shoes and socks the moment they’re down there, claiming that he hates sand in his shoes. Then he rolls up his trousers a few turns and strides off with purpose towards one side of the cove. John follows after him, far too used to sand in his shoes to care about it.

The cove is inaccessible to visitors from either side, extreme rock climbers excepted. The information pack in the cottage said that the land belongs to the cottage — its own private beach. At high tide the sea reaches the steps at the back, but at all other times they’re welcome to use the cove to their hearts’ content. There’s a large cupboard in the cottage for the storage of watersports equipment.

Sherlock promptly starts up the cliff face, climbing around over toward the sea. John can see his goal: there’s a cave hollowed out of the rock which is probably much more easily accessible at low tide than it is now, with the sea halfway up the beach. John makes sure their picnic bag is secure on his back, then climbs after him, hoping he won’t do anything as stupid as falling off onto the rocks below.

Sherlock reaches the cave with ease. When John catches up to him Sherlock is inside, sitting cross-legged on a dry ledge, trousers cuffed and his feet sandy and his hair windswept. This is what Sherlock must’ve looked like as a boy. His face is lit up with a quiet joy that probably hasn’t been there since his childhood.

John shimmies over to Sherlock’s ledge and sits beside him.

“Perfect spot for a picnic,” Sherlock says.

“Especially for smugglers.” 

“Pirates are better than smugglers,” Sherlock says, in complete seriousness.

John smiles to himself, trying not to think too loudly about how adorable Sherlock is being. He pulls their sandwiches out of the bag and passes Sherlock his. Together they eat in companionable silence, watching the dark grey clouds that are rolling along the horizon.

“I’ll go into town after this,” John says, after a while. “Return that torch. Are you coming?”

“No. I have a violin piece to work on.”

“Last night’s composition? I liked it. It’s here, isn’t it?”

Sherlock smiles, a real, proper, rare Sherlock smile. He’s always pleased when John figures out his compositions.

“Yes, it’s here. Partly. It’s still a work in progress.”

“I look forward to hearing the completed version.”

They make their way back to the cottage after that. John just stops off briefly then heads to the pub to return the torch.

“Here, you’re staying out in Cove Cottage, aren’t you?” the pub owner asks him.

“Yeah, we are.”

“Big storm tonight. You’ll probably be hard hit out in the open there. It’s coming in from the sea.”

“We saw the clouds at lunch,” John says.

“Well, it’ll hit soon. Make sure you stay inside, warm and dry, you and your friend.”

“Thanks, we will.”

John goes to buy some candles after that, just in case the storm knocks the power out. The way the owner said ‘you and your friend’ had implied more. John is well used to that tone of voice being employed when it comes to him and Sherlock. He just lets it wash over him now. He’s stopped insisting that he’s not gay — people will assume what they want to anyway. He knows that he and Sherlock only bring it upon themselves. They’re inseparable; they live together, work together, spend their free time together. John knows married couples who spend less time around each other. It’s no wonder everyone assumes they’re a couple. He doesn’t think about how things would be if they were right. Sherlock is married to his work, so it’s an impossibility.

There’s no point hoping for something that will never happen when what they have is perfectly good. And if he thinks about it too much, Sherlock might be able to deduce it, and that would not be a good situation. John knows exactly how he feels about Sherlock, but he’ll deny it until he can’t possibly deny it any more. 

The wind is starting to howl along the coast when John gets back to the cottage. He puts the candles on the kitchen table and watches the trees on top of the hill swaying. Sherlock comes into the kitchen, violin in hand, and snags an apple from their small collection of fruit.

“Storm tonight. A big one. Someone in the pub warned you, so you bought candles because you like to be prepared.”

“Correct as always. How did your composing go?”

“It’s just simple observation, not difficult as long as one pays attention. And it went well.”

John smiles. “Good.”

Sherlock takes a bite from his apple and retreats back to the living room, looking at his watch. He sighs. “Time is crawling today.”

John follows after him. “That’s because you’re excited for tomorrow.”

“Excited is the wrong word. More curious.”

John settles into an armchair and picks up the novel he brought. “If you weren’t curious I’d be asking you who you were and what you’d done with the real Sherlock.”

“No one would be able to replace me without you realising instantly,” Sherlock scoffs. “I don’t have an identical twin, and you know me and my mannerisms better than anyone.”

“Anyone? Even Mycroft?”

“Of course.”

Sherlock subsides, leaving John feeling proud that Sherlock sees him as the person that knows him best. Most other people don’t try to know Sherlock beyond his all-business, often-insulting exterior. They don’t know that he has a softer side. John has glimpsed it. He knows that few others have.

John settles in to read his book. Sherlock finishes his apple and throws the core onto the cold ashes of the fire.

“That’s not where that goes,” John says without looking up.

“It is now. What an excellent nagging mother you’d make.”

“I don’t need children,” John replies. “I’ve already got you to look after.”

“I can look after myself fine without you,” Sherlock says. He sounds a little put out.

“I know,” John agrees readily. “You’re hardly incapable. But would you want to?” He pauses. Re-reads the same sentence twice, still not taking it in. “I wouldn’t want to go back to living alone now.”

Sherlock is silent and still. After a minute of thought he brings his violin up to his chin and practises his fingering, bow arm staying at his side. The quiet twang of the strings as they’re pressed and released is clear in the hush.

An hour later, Sherlock throws down his violin (or since he can’t bring himself to handle it badly, sets it on the table with the tiniest amount of force). John looks up from his book.

“Me neither,” says Sherlock, then grabs his coat and leaves the cottage, swirling his coat on as he goes.

John is perplexed, having been wrapped up in his book for the past hour. Was Sherlock having a mental conversation without him again? But once he manages to think back to the conversation they were having before the silence fell, he realises what Sherlock meant. He smiles and pulls out his brick phone to text Sherlock.

> Come back, you idiot. It’ll start raining soon.

As John predicts, the pattering of a light rain on the roof starts as soon as he sends the text. For the moment it’s just heavy drizzle, so he doesn’t worry about Sherlock getting too wet. He lights a fire so they can get Sherlock’s heavy woollen coat drying once he’s back. It still takes a good fifteen minutes for Sherlock to return.

“I wanted to go to the cave, but the tide is in.”

John takes his coat off him and drapes it over a chair.

“I’m glad you didn’t try to climb along the cliff in this weather.”

“I’m not an idiot, John.” Sherlock is trembling ever so slightly.

“Right. You go and shower or have a bath and I’ll start making us some dinner.”

It’s a little, well, cute that Sherlock felt the need to run away and leave the cottage after saying he didn’t want to live alone anymore. Especially after this morning when he happily planned out John’s retirement for him.

Sherlock spends a long time upstairs in the bathroom. He must have chosen the bath. John finishes making their dinner and leaves it to simmer on the stove till Sherlock comes down. He wanders back through to the living room. Sherlock’s composition is sitting on the coffee table. He attempts to hum a few notes of it, but his sight reading was always awful and Sherlock’s scribbles and crossings out don’t make the score any clearer. He goes back to his book instead.

Sherlock comes back downstairs, his cheeks pink from the heat of his bath, hair mad from a rough towel drying.

“Dinner’s ready when you are,” John says.

He had lunch and an apple earlier, so John doesn’t expect he’ll eat much. He’ll be shocked after his change when his body demands that he consume mountainous quantities of food.

“In a bit,” Sherlock says, which means that John will serve them in a while when Sherlock forgets to.

He swipes his composition up off the table and sits by the fire, staring at his music and chewing on a pencil.

“Did you ever think of going into music?” John asks. “Before you came up with the job of consulting detective, I mean.”

Sherlock changes something with a very decisive flick of his pencil. “Plenty of orchestras tried to recruit me. I wasn’t interested.”

“Why not? A life of music, you’d enjoy that.”

“I would enjoy a life of music, but being in an orchestra would be a life of continuous rehearsals with squabbling members and a conductor trying to change everything you do and someone else picking the pieces. My music is mine.”

“I see,” John says. It’s clear that music and violin playing are both deeply personal to Sherlock, a way for him to express his emotions. Sherlock playing is always the most emotional John has ever seen him.

Sherlock hums a few notes, then hums them slightly differently, then springs up to get his violin and play through them.

“You like watching me play,” he says suddenly.

John has his book open but he’s watching Sherlock. “I do,” he agrees.

“Why?”

“I like watching you connect with the music so deeply, even when you just play a few notes.”

“Many concert level musicians do the same.”

“I don’t get to watch any of them up close. It’s beautiful.”

Sherlock looks like he’s about to argue the point.

“Don’t disagree with me,” John says firmly. “Don’t put it down as something simple or something which hundreds of people can do. To me it’s extraordinary.”

Sherlock smiles a little private smile and tries out a few more notes.

“I’d like to see you play at a concert, with an orchestra. I bet you’d command the whole stage, just like you do a crime scene.”

“Are you trying to say I’m a drama queen, John?”

John grins. “Maybe just a little. Definitely a performer.”

“Good deduction is an art form.”

“It is the way you do it.”

He puts his book to one side and gets up to serve them dinner. Sherlock follows to sit at the kitchen table. He brings his sheet music, always unable to sit and eat and only focus on one thing.

The rain continues during and after dinner, getting gradually heavier. John hopes it will have stopped by tomorrow night. His wolf doesn’t mind, of course, but he isn’t particularly fond of changing back into a wet human body. Their evening is quiet: the fire, the violin for Sherlock, his book for John. He retires to bed early and suggests that Sherlock do the same, since they’ll be up all of tomorrow night. Again, he leaves the curtains open. The storm clouds make his bedroom darker than it was the previous night. He settles in and drifts off to sleep.

  
  
***  
  


Sherlock heads to bed around an hour after John does. It’s ridiculously early, by his standards, but John had had a point. He doesn’t know how much energy he’ll expend running around as a wolf, and he wants to be fully alert for it.

In his room he can hear the wind howling through the trees. The rain lashes against the window. He rolls over with a huff. It may be sensible to go to bed this early, but that doesn’t make it easy to fall asleep. He doesn’t know how long he spends staring into the darkness of his room, but it must be approaching an hour. His wolf whines.

“Yes, I’m tired of it too,” he says. This is what he’s been reduced to. He’s talking to himself, but not even the human side of himself.

His wolf keeps whining, apparently unsatisfied with that. Sherlock shifts, uneasy. “What’s wrong?”

He understands when his room flashes bright, followed several long seconds later by a low rumble of thunder.

Ah. That explains it. Sherlock has never liked storms. No wonder his wolf doesn’t either. In London they’re muffled by the constant noise of traffic, made more bearable by the comfortable press of flats and buildings surrounding him. Here, though…

Another flash. Sherlock automatically counts the seconds until the thunder. It’s getting closer. Here the storm is all-encompassing. There’s nothing around them. They’re exposed to the wind, the rain, the thunder and the lightning. The wind through the trees at the top of the hill sounds like screaming.

Enough. He gets out of bed. It’s cold; the residual heat from the fire has seeped away already. He doesn’t know where he’s going until he finds himself opening John’s door. The hinges squeal.

John rolls over and peers through the darkness. Another flash of lightning.

“Are you alright?” John asks.

Sherlock manages to say yes, but it’s drowned out by the thunder. John, wonderful John, understands what he didn’t say.

“Well, don’t just stand there shivering.” John flips back the corner of the duvet and pats the mattress.

The wind rattles the windows. Sherlock shuts the door and slips into bed with him. Another flash of lightning lights up John’s face. He’s looking at Sherlock, sleep-rumpled, hair sticking up. The storm didn’t disturb him — he is adept at sleeping through loud noises when he needs to — which means he was woken when Sherlock opened the door.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” Sherlock says, just audible over the thunder. He didn’t. He doesn’t know what he meant to do.

“It doesn’t matter. Now I can watch the light show.”

Sherlock frowns. He sees John’s dim silhouette shift to look out of the window. He follows his gaze. A bolt of lightning forks jaggedly through the sky, illuminating the pouring rain.

“Beautiful,” John says.

“How?” Thunder rumbles.

“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. I’ve always liked storms. I take it you don’t.”

“My wolf won’t stop whining.”

John huffs a little laugh. “You know your wolf is you.”

“I’m not scared of storms.”

“I didn’t say you were scared,” John says. “I said you don’t like them.”

There’s another flash and rumble before Sherlock replies.

“No, I don’t.”

“It’s hard to ignore out here in the middle of nowhere.”

Sherlock nods. John will only be able to hear his curls rustling against the pillow.

“You can stay,” John says. “I don’t mind. Try and get some sleep.”

“I can’t. I’ve been trying for _hours_.”

John laughs. “Quit the melodrama and roll over.” He pokes Sherlock’s side until he complies and rolls over.

His half of the bed is warming up now. It’s nice being here with John, much nicer than being all alone in his own room with the rain slamming against the window. John’s fingers slide into the hair at the base of his neck and Sherlock tips his head back to meet them, almost letting a little hum of pleasure escape. He wriggles around to get properly comfy. His wolf has been gradually quieting since he got into bed with John, and now that he’s stroking his hair it’s completely silent, if a little tense. He wonders whether his wolf is in fact a cat. It’s clearly enjoying this petting. He is too. He’s so relaxed that he feels himself tense in surprise at a new flash of lightning, but then John’s fingers find a sensitive spot and he melts. He feels as much as he hears John breathe out a laugh.

How can this one simple thing — just a little touch — make him feel so relaxed, so good? Is it the same for everyone else? Would it be the same if it was someone other than John? He thinks not. Part of what makes this good is the fact that this is John.

His wolf curls up and dozes. Ever since he was bitten, John has been there to guide him, to advise him, to soothe his headaches. From what John and Mycroft have said, John’s own transition wasn’t as smooth, didn’t feel as… safe. He feels safe, secure, supported. He can only imagine how John felt. He doesn’t know the details. He wants John to feel how he feels now. How can he do that?

What? John said something and he missed it. Sherlock processes the audio memory.

“How come you don’t like storms?” Ah yes, that was it. John is always intrigued by the details of Sherlock’s past, particularly his childhood. 

“Mmm, storm. Trapped outside, lost.” Why is it so difficult to form sentences? “Only little. Couldn’t get back home. Myc found me.”

Before he became Mycroft, all grown up. Myc was quite different to Mycroft.

“Ah, I see,” says John, then, “Myc?” His amusement is audible.

Sherlock tips his head to nudge the fingers in his hair. “Mmm. We were young.”

“You’re sleepier than I thought,” John says, and brushes over that sensitive spot again.

He’s a puddle. Is he meant to reply? He doesn’t think he can.

“Go to sleep,” John says softly.

Won’t be hard. His wolf is almost asleep anyway. He slips just a little more and falls away into sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Sherlock's first real change!  
> My Christmas schedule is looking pretty packed, but if I can post on Friday I will!


	7. 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is my Christmas present to you: Sherlock's first change!

Sherlock wakes slowly, warm and rested. He opens his eyes to the clear morning sunlight, the gentle blue stillness of the sea side bedroom, and John’s sleeping face. He’s rolled over in the night; he’s now facing John, who must’ve fallen asleep still stroking Sherlock’s hair, because he has one arm stretched out towards him, fingertips resting lightly against Sherlock’s chest.

He looks peaceful. That’s how Sherlock had been feeling when he’d fallen asleep last night. Sherlock gently lays his fingers over John’s and John shifts a little, making a sleepy noise which instantly goes into his mind palace, though he’s not sure why. He wonders what time it is, tries to judge it without moving by looking at the angles of light in the room, but he doesn’t know the room or the area well enough. He doesn’t want to move to find a clock. Right here, this moment, is where he wants to stay. For as long as possible.

John is waking up. He watches as his face gradually awakens, loses its sleepy laxness. Then his eyes open. Their blue goes perfectly with the sea and the sky and the walls. John blinks a few times, then smiles. He can almost hear John’s brain whirring into action.

“Good morning,” John says.

He pulls his hand away from Sherlock’s chest for a full body stretch, yawning, nose scrunching up. He sits up, then slides out of bed. Sherlock instantly feels disappointed. Why won’t he stay longer? There’s something not entirely relaxed about how he’s holding himself. Is he embarrassed? Surely John has shared beds with countless people. Sherlock knows his reputation.

“I’m going for a shower,” he says, heading for the door. Evasion.

Sherlock rolls onto his other side. “Are you embarrassed?” he asks.

John turns to look at him. Rubs his nose. “Me? Embarrassed? No. Why would I be embarrassed?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “You should have learnt by now that you can’t bluff to me. Why persist in trying?”

John has the decency to look mildly ashamed. He shifts from foot to foot, looking at the wall, the ceiling, out of the window.

“It’s just that it’s, well… It’s… a bit…” John spends several seconds searching for a suitable word. “A bit unusual. That’s all.”

Sherlock stares at him incredulously. Unusual? Has he not been paying attention to their lives?

“You were the one who invited me into your bed, John.”

“Yeah, well you woke me up, it was the middle of the night, you were scared—”

“I was not scared.”

“Fine, you ‘didn’t like’ the storm. I didn’t really think ahead.”

Oh. One of those things that’s fine in the middle of the night, in the darkness, but come the harsh light of day…

John must see the way his thoughts are going.

“No, Sherlock, I didn’t mean— Fuck it. I enjoyed it, okay? I’m fairly certain you did too, so that’s great. Good. Just it’s not what people do.”

“We ran away to a cottage in the middle of nowhere because I was bitten and my brother is overbearing,” Sherlock says. “We don’t do things that people do.”

“Okay. I suppose not.” John relaxes a little.

Why must John cling to the belief that his life follows a normal path? It doesn’t, and hasn’t for a long time. That’s part of the reason he’s so intriguing to Sherlock.

“Go and shower, John.”

He lets John make his escape. He’ll understand eventually. Sherlock’s just glad he doesn’t regret last night.

  
  
***  
  


Three hours later and Sherlock is a whir of activity, pacing, mirroring his wolf, who wants to come out _now_. He doesn’t understand how John is staying so calm. Sherlock’s wolf is running circles in his head and it’s driving him insane.

“How can you just sit there?” Sherlock finally snaps at John.

“Practice,” John replies. “Much more patience than you have.”

“I can’t just create patience whenever I need it,” Sherlock complains.

“Find something to do,” John says.

Sherlock takes a deep breath. He wants to make an effort to be nice to John, because John was embarrassed this morning, and that sort of thing will make him touchy all day, despite the irrationality of his shame. John can be even more stubborn than Sherlock sometimes. So. Something to do.

He picks up his violin. This can be added into his composition, this frustration, the need to change already, before it’s even dark. He tries out a few melodies but everything ends up with him venting his frustration through his violin, and not in a musical way. After fifteen minutes he can’t stand any more.

“Play me that slow one,” John says, just as Sherlock decides to give up. 

“That’s astoundingly vague, John.”

“You always play it at nighttime, when I’m already in bed.”

Sherlock knows hundreds of pieces and he plays most of them. Which does John mean? He plays a few snatches of melodies from various pieces until John’s eyes light up in recognition.

“That one.”

“Bach,” Sherlock says. “Partita No. 2. Now you can stop being so vague.”

John grins. “Okay. Play me Bach’s Partita No. 2. Please.”

Sherlock has the music for this one in his mind palace. It’s one of his favourites to play for John. When he has nightmares Sherlock tends to stick to the calmer first section, but today they have time and are nightmare-free, so he’ll play the whole thing.

He raises his violin to his chin and slips into his mind palace to read the music. He’s surprised when three minutes in his wolf stops pacing and comes to lie at his feet. After that it’s easy to sink into the music.

Around half an hour later, Sherlock finishes playing and reemerges from his head. John has been staring, apparently also lost in the music, and he blinks a few times to come back to himself.

“Beautiful,” he whispers.

Sherlock smiles. He does particularly like that piece and playing it was remarkably effective in calming his wolf. And John’s praise is always, always welcome.

“You will be pleased to hear,” John says, after a few quiet moments, “that moonrise is quite early tonight. Late afternoon really. But we’ll wait until it’s fully dark. We have some things we can do until then.”

Sherlock nods a little absently. His wolf is starting to perk up again. He takes all the necessary cares with his violin and bow and gently puts them away.

John must sense his growing agitation.

“Shall we go up to the beehives?” he suggests.

  
  
***  
  


The beehives proved an admirable distraction. Sherlock has samples in his bag, waiting to be taken back up to London for analysis. He wants to discover who kept the hives before, how long ago, which flowers the bees produced the honey from.

When they get back they need the light on. The sky outside is beginning to dim. Sherlock feels a twinge of something and tries to categorise it. Nerves? Yes, he is nervous, just a touch. Anticipation is practically a given. Curiosity. That one’s not hard to identify. Curiosity is his standard state of being. A passing need to just do _something_ already, which must be coming from his wolf. Following that, another emotion, unfamiliar to him. What if he can’t do anything? He has to surrender control over his body. Over his mind, to an extent. This emotion is fear.

John is bustling about in the kitchen. Sherlock goes to watch him. He needs something to concentrate on. John is preparing food. He reorganises the fridge, making sure that things like bacon and eggs are easy to access (for him. For Sherlock easy to access would be one shelf higher). He takes out milk, flour, opens every cupboard in the kitchen until he finds what he’s looking for: a large mixing bowl. He mixes ingredients as Sherlock watches.

“What are you making?” Sherlock asks.

“Pancakes. For tomorrow.” John finishes the batter and puts the mixing bowl in the fridge.

“For our voracious appetites?”

“Exactly,” John says. He looks over and grins. “You won’t know yourself, Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock just blinks. John goes back to preparing food.

That’s exactly what Sherlock is afraid of.

  
  
***  
  


It’s fully dark. The moon has begun to rise. Sherlock’s wolf can feel it; it’s been pacing for hours now. John has dinner bubbling away on the stove. How can he stay so calm? Sherlock’s wolf is making him so frantic that he’s been tugging at his hair. He hates this on-edge feeling. John washes his hands and turns off the tap with a decisive twist.

“Right. Get your coat on. We’re going out.”

Sherlock’s stomach wrings itself into knots. “We’re—”

“Not changing yet,” John interrupts. He pulls on his coat. “Come on.”

They go out into the field in front of the cottage, far enough that they feel out in the open, surrounded only by the complete darkness. 

“Okay,” John says. “I realise that you and your wolf don’t have the best relationship. But you need to be able to connect with it to change. So, tell me. Where is the moon?”

Sherlock frowns, but tips his head to look up at the night sky. There stars are beautiful, so much clearer than in London. There are a few thin clouds streaked here and there across the sky, but no moon.

“I don’t know,” he says to John. “It’s not up yet. Do we have to do this?” The novelty is wearing off already.

“It is up. You know that.”

“But it’s not up _enough_! I can’t see it.”

“I can tell you exactly where it is. And you can tell me.”

This whole exercise is pointless and frustrating. He’s connected with his wolf exactly as much as he wants to. He doesn’t need John’s interference.

_Help_ , part of him corrects.

John didn’t have help, why should he?

But John had a bad first change. That’s the very least he’s deduced. John is just trying to make Sherlock’s experience better than his own was.

Fine. Fine. 

His wolf is yipping for his attention. What does it want? Oh, of course. The moon. His wolf knows exactly where the moon is. He tries to ask it, to engage with it, but that doesn’t work. His wolf can instinctively _feel_ where the moon is, but he can’t. He’s Sherlock. He’s not his wolf. But his wolf is him. To do this, he needs to be the wolf.

John is quiet, as if he knows exactly what’s going on in Sherlock’s head and is perfectly happy to await the conclusion.

Sherlock closes his eyes and tries to feel what the wolf can feel. The wolf is in his mind palace now. It shouldn’t be so hard. But it takes him more than one attempt. More than three. There’s no obvious _how_. 

There it is! He’s not sure how he did it, but he slipped inside his wolf’s skin, just briefly, and now he knows.

“There,” he points. “Behind and below that cliff.”

“Perfect.” He can hear John smiling.

John leads them back to the cottage. “You felt that, didn’t you?” he says. “When you connected with your wolf. That’s what you need to do to change.”

Again there’s the ball of knots in Sherlock’s stomach. But he knows he has to change tonight. He feels like he’ll explode if he doesn’t.

John glances at him. “It’s natural to feel nervous.”

“I’m not nervous,” he replies, a touch too quickly.

John just gives him that look, the one that occasionally makes him believe that John can read him just as well as Sherlock can read everyone else. Sherlock huffs at him.

“Okay, here’s the plan,” John says. “We’re going to eat early. Then I’ll explain to you how changing works. We’ll probably be out most of the night. When we’re back, straight to bed to recover. How does that sound?”

He doesn’t know how they’d do it any differently. “I entrust myself to your expertise, John.”

  
  
***  
  


Dinner is a quiet affair. Sherlock doesn’t want to eat. He’s hardly hungry; there’s a sort of lead ball taking up all the room in his stomach. He manages about half, because John insists he needs the energy, then pushes the rest around his plate. After, John clears and scrubs the dishes, stacking them in a neat pile beside the sink, making sure everything is tidy and ready for their gigantic breakfast tomorrow. Sherlock wonders how he can be so methodical, so calm; he wishes he had something to busy himself with. He alternates between pacing and standing at the window, staring up at the moon.

The next time he stalks past John, John catches his wrist. “Sherlock!” His tone is nearly sharp.

John must have been trying to get his attention for a while. He lets John tug him over to the armchairs by the fire. They sit down, choosing the chairs on the same sides as their own in Baker Street.

“Listen carefully,” John says. “This is how you’ll change.”

“In minute detail, John,” Sherlock requests. “Facts, not figures of speech.”

John smiles ruefully. “You may be a little disappointed. So we went out and you _felt_ where the moon was via your wolf.”

“Yes, but how did I do that?”

“It’s not… There’s no—” John sighs and searches for a way to explain it. “You pay no attention to your feet, normally. But if you stay very still and focus on them, you can suddenly feel the soles in a way you didn’t before.”

Sherlock pouts. “I asked for minute detail.”

“And I told you you may be disappointed,” John counters. “Anyway. Your wolf is almost certainly desperate to change.”

Sherlock nods.

“So you connect to your wolf, like before, but you stay connected this time. There’s the urge to change. You hold onto that. Forget your human body, stay focused on your wolf’s desire to change, and you’ll just… change.”

John didn’t have anyone to help him. John is just trying to help. He’s grateful that he has someone and that it’s John. The problem is that John’s help is so woefully _unhelpful_.

John is wincing. He can tell.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock. I wish there was an easier way to explain it.”

He doesn’t want to take this out on John. He’s doing his best. “It’s not a science,” he says. “I understand.”

John relaxes again. “So. Do you think you can do it?”

He considers it. “It won’t be impossible.”

Connecting to his wolf to hone in on the moon was hard, and he’s still not sure how he did it. He knows that trying to maintain that connection will be even harder than initiating it. But he thrives on a challenge.

“Good,” says John. “Shall we start then? Are you ready?”

He stands. He probably looks braver than he feels.

John undoes his shirt and shrugs it off, then pulls off the t-shirt he’s wearing underneath.

“You need to strip,” he says. “Unless you want to ruin another suit.”

Sherlock takes off his shirt as John pulls off his socks and checks that the front door is ajar.

“Wait,” he says, as John undoes his own trousers. “How do I change back? When?”

“I’ll let you know when. Your wolf will tire, and we’ll come back here. You just need to take over from your wolf again. Picture yourself in your human body. It’ll be easier because that’s what you’re used to.”

“Good. Good.”

Ugh, repetition. From himself. He takes off his trousers. John is down to his pants. It’s just transport, and normally he wouldn’t care, but now he’s feeling a little self-conscious. What’s different now to any other time?

John takes off his pants, and Sherlock very carefully doesn’t look at him as he takes off his own. John turns off the main light, leaving just the lamps on. Of course, not looking doesn’t mean that Sherlock doesn’t see. He knows now where John was bitten. His scar is on the outside of his right thigh, high up, just below his hip. It’s not as obvious as Sherlock’s will be — teeth can pierce silk shirts more easily than heavy army uniform fabric. It explains a few things, though. The psychosomatic limp makes a lot more sense. Sherlock was an idiot not to have deduced it before.

“Okay, close your eyes,” John says.

_Just transport_. He closes his eyes.

“Feel your wolf. Feel the moon. I’m sorry, this sounds like utter bullshit.”

He opens his eyes. “You change first. Then I can see.”

“No, I won’t be able to talk you through it that way.”

“‘Feel the moon’?”

John laughs. “Shut up and close your eyes.”

He closes his eyes and suddenly realises what a bizarre situation this is. They ran away from London, and now they’re standing in a holiday cottage, both naked, not for the usual reasons people stand naked together. He shifts from foot to foot.

“Right, just go with my bullshit,” says John. “Ready?”

Sherlock nods. John is watching.

“Slow down all your human thoughts. Don’t pull that face at me, Sherlock Holmes, just try. Your wolf will be desperate to change, so it won’t be hard to find it.”

It isn’t. In his mind palace Sherlock’s wolf is circling round and round his legs.

“Find your wolf, then find the… presence of your wolf. Its mind inside your mind. You found it before, you can do it again.”

It’s proving elusive. Sherlock still isn’t sure how he reached it in the first place.

“This time, when you connect to it, hold on. And keep holding on. Imagine being your wolf, in your wolf’s body.”

Sherlock keeps trying. He can feel his wolf’s desperation to change, tries to link up with that. Minutes pass by. The wolf side of his mind is getting harder and harder to snatch at. John is silent. Suddenly something catches; he can feel his wolf. He scrambles to hold onto it, and keeps it for a second, but just as quickly it slips away.

“Argh!” He turns his back on John and buries his hands into his hair, tugging.

“Good start,” says John.

“It was _not_ a good start. I lost it!”

“No, you found it. Next time hold onto it.”

He makes a frustrated noise and then takes a deep breath to try again.

He reaches out to his wolf. He imagines being a wolf, the way he had been in his dream. So many times he feels the wolf’s mind slip past him, but can’t quite grab it. But he doesn’t like failure. He _will_ do this.

Again, with no discernible reason, Sherlock catches hold of his wolf. This time he holds on and on and on. His muscles tense. He thinks of his dream. He thinks of running with his wolf. He forgets everything else. His transport, the room, John… Something switches inside of him, and suddenly his muscles are burning, as if they’re being stretched past endurance. His skin itches, but he can’t move his arms to scratch. Through a rushing in his ears, he hears John’s voice.

“Perfect, Sherlock, well done. This will only hurt for a little bit.”

His joints aren’t meant to make that sound. Sherlock drops to his hands and knees and opens his eyes, and his hands are paws. His mind is slipping back, submerging into the wolf mind. He’s panicking. John told him about this, it’s normal, but it feels awful.

“Shh, it’s okay. This is normal. Stay calm.”

Sherlock feels a hand on his back and turns, stumbles slightly on four legs he’s not used to, and the wolf mind is in control.

John is crouching down. He has a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. The wolf takes a step forward to sniff at him. John: safe, friend, packmate. The wolf calms. Sherlock calms.

“Alright?” John asks. He stays crouched for a moment more, then stands up and closes his eyes. His change is quick, unlike Sherlock’s. The wolf watches disinterestedly, but within it, Sherlock stares. Did his change happen like that? It looks monstrous.

Then there is a wolf in front of him, smaller than Sherlock, its fur a soft grey with sandy overtones. Sherlock yips in happy recognition and bounds forward. He trips and ends up with his muzzle to the floor. Why aren’t his legs working properly?

John steps forwards to him. Nudges him up. Licks his jaw. _Hello_. He turns and walks to the door and Sherlock follows, stumbling. But by the time he reaches John, his legs are working properly. John noses the door open. Outside! Sherlock craves open space.

They step out. For a moment they just stand, side by side. A gentle breeze ruffles their fur. Interesting smells tickle their noses. The smoke of a faraway bonfire, carried by the wind. The salty scent of the sea. Moisture in the air. The sweet breath of the grass.

A slight twitch from John, and then he’s off, running flat out, joyous. Sherlock tears after him through the wet grass. He’s so _fast_. Wind in his ears. Rustles of night creatures.

Sherlock has longer legs. He catches up quickly, leaps at John. They tumble over each other, tussle. John pins Sherlock. When he’s clearly won, he releases him. Sherlock gets up and shakes himself, the satisfaction of the race and the fight running through him, electric.

They look at each other for a moment, then Sherlock twists to the side and darts away. John chases after him and tumbles over Sherlock when he suddenly pulls up short. What’s that? A human scent. It smells like him, but not like him. Sherlock puts his nose to the ground and follows it. 

They end up at the beehives. John huffs at him. He’s amused. Oh! Sherlock came up here in his human form. He understands now. He was following his own trail. He sniffs around the beehives enough to satisfy his curiosity, then they’re off again.

Running through the woods is a new challenge. There are logs to jump, branches to dodge. Sodden leaves slip under his paws. They stop when they reach the fence. John slips under and sniffs carefully at the ground. Then he turns and leads Sherlock back the way they came. It smells too much of other humans over there. The human side of Sherlock’s brain realises that it must be the coast path. 

John races back down the hill and past the cottage. Sherlock follows, but has to stop to sniff at the car, which smells of sweet, sharp petrol, and mud from faraway places. John waits, watching. Inspection complete, Sherlock follows him to the edge of the cliff, to the stairs. They go down, John graceful, Sherlock clambering awkwardly. Steps are new. John strides out onto the beach. Sherlock steps out after him.

Oh no. He doesn’t like this.

What is this _stuff_ under his paws? It’s not like soil, nor the gravel by the car.

_Sand_ , human Sherlock supplies.

John likes it. Sherlock whines at him. John is amused at him again. He snorts and runs away. Sherlock lifts one leg, then another, tries to shake the gritty stuff off his paws. John calls to him, a short yip, then another. The smell of salt is very strong down here. He hears water.

The sand won’t go. John calls again. Sherlock goes to him. He’s at the edge of the water. This isn’t his home territory (but there aren’t any other wolves here so it’s okay). John is excited because his home territory doesn’t have water like this. It’s _moving_. He wants to play. Sherlock wants to clean his paws.

Together they walk into the water. John jumps around and splashes. There’s more sand underneath the water which doesn’t seem fair to Sherlock. He snaps at a moving bit of water. It’s salty, yuck. He tries to lick it away and ends up more salty. John jumps too close to him and soaks him. Sherlock leaps on him in retaliation. Now they’re both soaked. Much better.

John leaps back on Sherlock and for a while they tumble around together in the shallows. Distantly Sherlock thinks that he’s never had so much fun with a packmate before. Has he even had a packmate?

The fun of play is slightly ruined when they get out of the water and Sherlock discovers that the sand is sticking to him more than ever. He tries to shake it off the whole way up the beach. Big clods of it stick to his paws. John takes pity on him and shows him how to roll in the gravel to get it off. Once it’s gone they’re off again. They run up and down the hill. He follows the chirping of night insects. They practise hunting them. He can move almost silently. Like a whisper of wind. The human side of him is impressed. He stalks a night chirper — slow, focused, deadly. John ambushes him from the side. A lesson for his defences.

They play and run and hunt for hours and hours. The moon is setting. John leads the way back to the cottage. He is tired now, anyway. John stands up on his back legs and pushes the door open. Sherlock trots in after him. Enclosed again. Back to the human world. John changes to a human again. He smells different like this. Interesting.

“Come on, Sherlock. Time to change back.”

The human part of him understands. But he doesn’t want to change back. He’s having so much fun like this. His human body doesn’t have half as much fun. And John is an excellent packmate. And he’s so tired. He could just sleep, right n——

John pokes his nose hard. Sherlock rouses and growls at him.

“Good, stay awake. You don’t want to change back in your sleep until your body knows what it’s doing, trust me.”

His human side is sleepy too. But it’s taking over. It’s awful at using his senses. But it’s— 

Ah. There. Now Sherlock — human Sherlock — has control of his wolf and it’s time to turn back. He looks up at John. It’s funny seeing him from this angle, from below. As if Sherlock were on his knees.

No. Not that. That is territory he does not want to go into right now. Time to change back. Sherlock focuses very hard on what it feels like to be in his human body.

Changing back is easier than changing into wolf form. He knows his human body well. Again he feels the burning pain, the stretching, the itching, then he’s standing, human again. He feels curiously tall. Sherlock flops down onto the sofa. John throws a blanket into his lap and Sherlock musters up the energy to shake it out over his nakedness. John wraps himself in another blanket and sits beside Sherlock. Their thighs touch. Sherlock is no expert on these matters, and he’s too tired to think it through, but he feels like they might be closer now.

“How was that?” asks John.

It takes him several seconds to decipher the question. “Tiring,” he eventually answers. His eyelids are drooping.

“I’ll make some tea in a minute. Then we’ll go to bed.”

Sherlock isn’t entirely sure what John says but he sounds tired too. He thinks he might make a noise of agreement. His blanket is warm. He finally understands the expression ‘bone tired’. He falls asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6KaYzgofHjc is where you can hear the version of Bach's Partita No. 2 that I listened to on repeat while writing and editing this chapter. 
> 
> I recently read another fic that had Sherlock playing the same piece, so the author of that fic and I must've gone down the same google search route. Heh.


	8. 8

John wakes before Sherlock, the afternoon sun bright in his face. Sherlock’s head is resting on John’s shoulder. His curls tickle John’s neck. John gently dislodges him, then gets up and stretches, joints popping. He pulls on last night’s clothes. He feels refreshed, like he always does after a change these days. It clears his mind and calms his wolf, and he’s learnt to love it.

He glances at Sherlock. His cheeks are slightly pink from sleep. John hopes that he’ll wake feeling refreshed too. John’s own first experience was far from predictable, so he has no way of knowing how Sherlock will react.

John finds his mind drifting to him and Sherlock sharing a bed. He liked it, and he initiated, yes, but he wasn’t thinking ahead. Mates just don’t _do_ that. He knows it’s not good for him to think of Sherlock as anything other than a good mate.

As John is coming back from the bathroom, Sherlock shifts and wakes. John’s stomach is rumbling so much that he thinks it might take off.

“Good morning— afternoon,” he says.

Sherlock just stares at him.

“I’m going to make us breakfast. I bet you’re starving.”

Sherlock’s stomach growls and he looks at it, as if confused. John laughs and throws Sherlock’s clothes at him (as nice as he is without them) and heads to the kitchen to get breakfast going.

Bacon, eggs and toast as a first course. He once didn’t have enough food in after a change and suffered all the way to the nearest café. But that was before he met Sherlock, of course. Things were harder then.

Sherlock comes through to the kitchen messily dressed. He looks not entirely there. He must be processing last night. There’ll be a lot for his brain to figure out. John puts a cup of tea and a plate of food in front of him, sits opposite with his own and tucks in.

He’s halfway through his food and Sherlock hasn’t started. John nudges his leg with his foot.

“Sherlock, food. Eat up while it’s still hot.”

Sherlock looks down blankly at his food. He picks up his toast and just stares at it. Then suddenly he drops it and bolts upstairs.

Ah.

John gives him a moment of privacy then follows up after him. Sherlock is kneeling hunched over the toilet, his sleepy, rosy cheeks now pale.

“Sherlock…” Sympathetic pet names rise to his lips but he pushes them back down.

“Go away,” Sherlock mutters.

He thinks the last thing Sherlock needs right now is to be left alone with his mind. The change clearly disturbed him.

“Are you going to be sick again?”

Sherlock considers this and decides on no.

“Up you get, then.” He takes his arm and helps him up. “How about you brush your teeth and take a shower to help you feel more human?”

Sherlock flinches almost imperceptibly. Shit, bad word choice.

“I’m sorry, you are human.” He busies himself preparing Sherlock’s toothbrush and hands it to him.

“I’m a Were,” Sherlock says. He does nothing with the toothbrush.

“Which is still human, technically,” John says. He pushes Sherlock in front of the sink. “Brush.”

“I’m not human when I’m… when I’m.” Sherlock starts brushing his teeth hard, apparently angry at himself for tripping over his words. John waits. He spits. “When I’m a wolf.”

“You are still human. You’re a human in wolf form. Not biologically a wolf. Just a human in a different shape.”

Sherlock continues brushing his teeth and doesn’t reply.

“Out,” he says when he’s finished. “I’m showering.”

“Come and get some breakfast when you’re done. Your body will need it.”

Sherlock shuts the door in his face.

He’s disappointed that Sherlock is taking this badly, but he supposes that he shouldn’t be surprised. He didn’t exactly take his own first change well, but that was an entirely different situation. He takes out the pancake batter and starts methodically making pancakes until he has a large stack of them. Sherlock needs to replenish his energy. He’s hoping to appeal to his sweet tooth.

Sherlock comes back down and sits at the table again. He’s holding himself tensely (John can tell now because he’s seen him at his most relaxed) and he’s roughly towel-dried his hair into a tangle of knots. John places a stack of pancakes in front of him, then goes to fetch a towel and a comb.

When he returns, Sherlock eyes him suspiciously. “What are you doing?” he asks.

John shushes him. “Just eat your pancakes.”

Sherlock chooses the honey and pours it over his pancakes. John stands behind him and uses the towel to gently squeeze the excess moisture out of his hair. Sherlock’s stomach rumbles. As he eats, John carefully works on the knots, holding the hair steady between his fingers so he doesn’t tug painfully. Sherlock has finished his pancakes long before John is done.

“Something else?” John asks.

“No,” Sherlock replies. His stomach rumbles again. “One breakfast is enough,” he says, as if he’s trying to convince himself.

John makes toast for both of them and spreads it with jam. Sherlock stares his down until it starts to go cold, but his transport wins and he eats. John finishes, rinses the stickiness from his hands, and continues teasing out Sherlock’s knots. Sherlock accepts the treatment without comment, sarcastic or otherwise, which is unusual for him, and very telling. John hates to break bad news, but he thinks this is a detail which Sherlock hasn’t realised and which he’ll want to prepare mentally for.

“Sherlock…”

“No,” Sherlock says. He can tell something not good is coming.

“One night a month isn’t enough.”

“No.”

“We need to change tonight as well.”

“No. I won’t. I won’t!”

If he didn’t have him pinned in place with the comb Sherlock would be long gone. John prepares to run after him if he bolts.

“If you don’t change yourself tonight, your body will change for you. And trust me, that’s just as fucking painful as when you get bitten. Bullet wound included.”

Sherlock spins around to look at him, normal Sherlockian curiosity back in his eyes for the first time today.

“You were shot when you were bitten. Or bitten when you were shot? So your first change—”

“—is not being discussed today,” John finishes.

He’s almost pleased to see Sherlock looking disappointed. It’s much more normal. He turns back around and allows John to continue detangling his hair.

“I won’t change tonight,” he states simply.

“What did I just tell you?” John asks. “You have no choice.”

He can almost feel Sherlock descending into the darkness of his black moods. He’s glad there are no cigarettes or drugs in the cottage. But he feels helpless. He decides to deal with this the Watson way, however flawed that might be.

John pulls down two glasses and the bottle of whisky and pours two fingers for both of them. Sherlock is frowning at him.

“It’s,” Sherlock glances at the clock, “half past three. In the afternoon.”

John slides him his glass. “Somewhere in the world it’s cocktail hour. Or whisky hour.”

Sherlock’s frown increases in intensity. “You’re not going the way of your sister, are you?”

“No, I’m not an addict.” John smiles and takes a sip. “Not to drink anyway.”

“To what then? You mean danger? Adrenaline?”

Well, partially, but not precisely. John decides on enigmatic. “That’s for me to know and you to find out.”

Sherlock sighs and stares into the depths of his whisky as if it will tell him the secrets of not having to change tonight. John moves back behind him and continues to work on his hair. He’s almost got all the knots out. He thinks this will be easier not face-to-face. Where does he start?

“I thought you enjoyed last night.”

Sherlock is silent. He drinks some whisky.

John continues. “I enjoyed last night. That was probably the most fun change I’ve had since I was first bitten. It really makes a difference having a friend with you.”

Sherlock takes a gulp of his whisky. “The wolf certainly enjoyed it,” he says.

“And you didn’t?”

Just like that, he’s unleashed a flood.

“I wasn’t in control! And the wolf is so… so stupid. Idiotic and dumb and it has such a dull, dull mind. It didn’t even know what sand was, John! It was surprised that sand stuck to it when it was wet! And all I could do was sit back and watch because the wolf was in control but it was like watching through fog and listening through water. The wolf _incapacitated_ me! And it— ow!”

“Sorry,” he says, even though he tugged that knot on purpose to snap Sherlock out of it.

Sherlock wraps his hands tight around his whisky glass. It doesn’t hide the fact that they’re shaking. John finishes off the last of the knots.

“I disagree,” he says. “You were in control. I saw you take control to change back. And you’re not giving your wolf enough credit. How many tiny things did you hear last night that you’ve never heard before? How many things did you smell? You tracked your own scent trail.”

“Idiotic,” Sherlock mutters. “I should have known where I went.”

“You did. You still do. In your human body. Your wolf doesn’t understand the world in the same way. Different things are important to it.”

“But they’re still important to me. Why should I have to sit through and suffer my wolf being an idiot because intelligence isn’t important to it?”

“It’s not stupid. It’s intelligent in a different way. It can see in the dark better than you and hear much more and run faster and for longer and hunt and track. All those abilities function better than they could in your human form.”

Sherlock is silent. Those are facts; he can’t dispute them.

“Anyway. Your wolf form might be fully grown because you are, but mentally it’s still getting used to this life. Effectively it’s still a pup. It’ll learn. Like now it knows that sand sticks to you when you’re wet. And that water is a lot of fun.”

Suddenly he feels very tired. Trying to convince Sherlock of anything is a battle, and they ran for _hours_ last night.

“I’m going for a lie down,” he says. “I’m tired.”

Sherlock looks at him as if he’s got two heads. “But we only just got up.”

“Yeah, and I’m not young anymore. I can’t think of the last time I stayed up all night like that. I’ll be upstairs if you need me.”

He makes his way upstairs. He settles into bed and gets comfy enough to doze, but his rest is fitful. After a while, a noise wakes him completely. What was it? The back door opening downstairs. He keeps listening. He doesn’t hear it close.

John gets up. He doesn’t have his gun with him. He hopes he won’t be needing it. No sign of Sherlock downstairs. He would’ve heard if he’d come upstairs.

“Sherlock?”

His coat is still hanging up, and his shoes are by the front door. The kitchen door is open, letting in a chill breeze. John quickly pulls on his own coat and shoes and goes out.

He finds Sherlock almost immediately. He’s standing halfway up the hill, looking out to sea, in only thin pyjamas and a silky dressing gown. He’s barefoot.

John jogs up the hill to him. “You nutter, it’s bloody freezing! Come back inside.”

Sherlock doesn’t move, just looks out to sea.

John puts an arm around him. He’s shivering slightly.

“Come on, Sherlock.”

He allows John to lead him back inside. The fire isn’t lit, so John shepherds him upstairs, to the sea side bedroom, and puts him into bed, into the warm patch left behind from his nap. He strips off his coat and shoes and climbs in too, facing Sherlock.

“What were you thinking?” he asks. “That pneumonia would be fun?”

“Exactly,” Sherlock says.

“What?” 

“Exactly. I was thinking. The cold helps me think sometimes.”

“Needing to think isn’t a reason to catch your death.”

“This isn’t the Victorian era, John. I won’t catch my death.”

“Well, more fool me for thinking it’s a good idea to wear your coat out in winter.”

“It isn’t winter, it’s autumn.”

“You know what, Sherlock? Just shut up.”

Sherlock shuts up. That’s never worked before. John can practically feel the cold radiating from Sherlock’s feet. He shuffles down in the bed a bit (Sherlock is a lanky git) and puts his own warm feet over Sherlock’s icy ones.

“What am I going to do with you?” he sighs.

Sherlock doesn’t answer for a long while. Then, “I can look after myself, John.”

“I know. That’s not what I said. But don’t you realise? It doesn’t have to be all you alone now. You’ve got me to help you.”

Sherlock needs to hear this. He doesn’t think that Sherlock has ever really had someone around to help him.

Sherlock nods slowly. “You are the expert in this case.”

“Too right I am. How are your hands?”

“What?”

John takes Sherlock’s hands in his. They’re cold, although not quite as much as his feet. He rubs them to warm them up.

“You’ll keep your fingers. Not sure about your toes though.”

Sherlock stares at him for a second, then realises that he’s teasing and gives a huff that means ‘I am unimpressed with the general idiocy of the universe’. 

He blows onto Sherlock’s hands and keeps rubbing them. “Will you be okay with changing tonight?”

“I don’t have any choice, do I?”

“You’ll change anyway. It’ll be easier if you prompt it yourself.”

“So I have to be okay with it. I don’t get to be anything but okay.”

John stops his rubbing and just holds Sherlock’s hands in his. “We don’t have to stay out all night. Two hours will be enough.”

“And the night after?”

“One final change. Then we can go back to London and you can go back to pissing off the police and chasing down criminals for another month.”

“Just two hours?”

“Just two hours.” He squeezes Sherlock’s hands.

“I suppose I can manage it.”

They lie like that, with John’s feet on Sherlock’s and his hands around Sherlock’s, for a little longer, longer than necessary for him to warm up. Warm and comfortable, John drifts back into a doze, and Sherlock doesn’t interrupt him.

When he wakes, the room has darkened slightly. It’s already late afternoon, and the sun is just beginning to set. Sherlock is looking at him.

“What time are we going out, John?”

He takes his hands away from Sherlock’s. They feel empty now. He wonders why Sherlock didn’t say anything. He stretches out, from his feet all the way up to his hands.

“Mmm. Quite late. About half eleven. I find it’s easier to change when the moon is higher. What do you want to do until then?”

Sherlock shrugs. When John had released his hands, he’d shifted so that he was propped up against the pillows. Now he’s looking out the window. The sea is golden with the reflection of the setting sun.

John follows his gaze. “That’s lovely.”

“It’s just light reflecting into your eyes in certain ways.”

John sits up and nudges him. “Don’t be a spoilsport. I know you appreciate it too.”

Sherlock is silent. John worries for him.

  
  
***  
  


Sherlock doesn’t seem to want to leave his warm spot in John’s bed after that. Perhaps he doesn’t need the cold to think anymore. John gets up. He doesn’t particularly want to leave Sherlock on his own, so he sits at the desk and tries to write up an old case that’s been in his notes for a while. He can’t concentrate, though; he keeps glancing around at Sherlock to check he’s okay. After a while, he can almost feel Sherlock’s boredom settling in. He looks through his bag and chucks some scientific journals onto the bed, ones that Sherlock has been meaning to read. Of course he didn’t think to pack them himself. Sherlock reads and John tries to write until his stomach decides that his enormous breakfast was too many hours ago, and that having had just biscuits and tea since isn’t enough.

“Come on, Sherlock. Time to eat.”

Sherlock’s stomach obviously agrees, because he follows him downstairs without kicking up a fuss about how much food he’s being expected to consume in one day. John quickly knocks up vast quantities of pasta for them. They’ll need their strength for the change later, even if they do only stay in wolf form for two hours.

Sherlock eats quietly, distracting himself with one of the journals. He doesn’t scoff at it like he usually does, which either means that it’s a very, very good article, or that Sherlock isn’t feeling at all himself. As much as John would like to think it’s the former, he knows it’s the latter. He knows just how much becoming a Were — especially the first real change — can fuck with your sense of self.

Time ticks by until half eleven. He lights a fire because Sherlock enjoys them, and he hopes that he can find a little comfort in it. Sherlock continues to read the journals, but increasingly stares at his violin. If this episode makes it into music, how will it sound?

At half eleven, John stands up. Sherlock hasn’t been looking at the clock at all, but he instantly stands up too, looking the most apprehensive John has ever seen him.

“Just two hours,” John reassures him.

He opens the door, turns off the main light, pulls off his clothes. Sherlock follows his lead. He motions for Sherlock to change first. He doesn’t turn his back this time, just closes his eyes and tries to find his wolf. John doesn’t allow himself to look anywhere below Sherlock’s waist because they’re mates, and even when you’re standing naked in front of each other, some things should stay as private as possible. That’s what he tells himself. Really, he knows it’s because his dreams don’t need any more fuel. Sherlock is already drop dead gorgeous in them.

Sherlock finds his wolf more easily this time, and doesn’t take long to change. John follows after. Even now, after a couple of years, the change is still a little painful, like working out muscles that have never been used before. It’s gone the moment he’s in wolf form.

His packmate is lying on the floor, head between paws. He’s sad. But that’s not right, he shouldn’t be sad. They’re a pack. They’re going to run and hunt and enjoy the night.

His human side prompts him that he needs to treat Sherlock carefully. His wolf doesn’t care about careful; he just needs his packmate to not be sad. He moves over to Sherlock and leans down to nudge him with his nose. No response. He hardly flicks an ear. He whines at Sherlock, _don’t be sad_ , licks his face, _get up, let’s go_. Sherlock still doesn’t react. John keeps licking him, grooming him, petting him. He can feel his mood gradually improving. 

Eventually Sherlock gets up. John licks him again, happily this time, and leads the way to the door. Outside is better. Sherlock will like outside. Wind, new scents. A fox came past last night after them. Its scent is sharp and strong. It tickles John’s nose. Sherlock is sniffing the air too. An owl hoots.

Sherlock shifts and stretches. He’s hesitant, uneasy. But — John scans the area — there’s no danger, so why? They’re fine here. Much freer than in the loud, busy city. He runs in a wide circle, then skids to a halt facing Sherlock. _Play with me_ , his body says. Sherlock takes a step forwards, but does nothing else. _Why won’t he play?_ His human side is worried, but the wolf just wants to play now that he finally has a packmate. And he wants Sherlock to have fun too.

Sherlock isn’t getting the message. He’ll be more obvious. John leaps on Sherlock and tackles him to the ground. _Play with me, fight with me_. When they hit the ground he feels something in Sherlock flick on and suddenly he seems much more _wolf_. They play-fight. Sherlock tackles him back, gets back to his feet. He leaps at John. John puts up half a fight but lets him win. Pinned to the ground, Sherlock’s teeth at his upturned throat, he’s satisfied. He wants to make him happy.

It works for a split second, then Sherlock flicks over again. His human side has control now. John huffs and rolls out from under him.

It goes like that. John manages to coax his packmate out for seconds, sometimes minutes, at a time and they have fun. Then he’s gone again, his humanity stubbornly in control. John is getting frustrated. He’ll fight Sherlock for real in a minute. Then his human side prompts him that it’s time to change back. Human John has been paying close attention to the progress of the moon through the sky. He’s ready to take control if his wolf won’t go back inside.

Wolf John doesn’t care. He’s getting sick of trying to tease Sherlock away from his human’s control. He nudges Sherlock back to the cottage. They didn’t get far, anyway.

Back inside, Sherlock picks up his clothes in his mouth and goes straight upstairs. John listens to him changing back into his human form. There are a few tense moments, sharp breaths, then Sherlock comes back downstairs, human and in pyjamas. He’s surprised to see John still in his wolf form.

Sherlock didn’t let him have his fun tonight. John considers leaving to run by himself, properly, but his human steps in and stops that thought.

“Aren’t you changing back?” Sherlock asks.

Human and wolf side consult and John decides that no, actually, he won’t change back just yet. He paces across the room to curl up by the embers of the fire.

Sherlock moves over too. He makes an aborted attempt to sit in one of the armchairs, then decides to sit on the floor near John’s head. John is comfortable and enjoying the blanket of the fire’s remaining warmth.

“John, you— your wolf was, or seemed, angry with me. Or irritated. Frustrated. I don’t know. Was—”

John puts a paw on his leg to stop him. This isn’t a conversation they can have while one of them can’t actually talk.

Sherlock looks at him curiously, observing. “May I…?” His hand hovers over John’s side.

John’s wolf looks to his human side, sees dogs and cats being petted and is offended. He isn’t a _pet_. But his human side thinks it’ll feel nice. He angles his head in invitation.

Sherlock gradually sinks his hand into John’s fur. He feels the strands between his fingers, leans over to examine them more closely. He hums a quiet, interested noise. Then slowly he slides his hand along John’s side. John’s wolf is forced to admit defeat. It _does_ feel nice. Sherlock strokes and John sinks into a soft state of bliss. Neither of them keeps track of the time.

 

Eventually John yawns. Sherlock snatches his hand back. John didn’t mean to make him jump. It’s bedtime. He gets up, stretches out. Mmm, that feels good on his warm muscles. He nudges at Sherlock’s leg to get him up.

He goes upstairs. He’s going to sleep in his wolf form in the nice, comfy bed that smells of both him and his packmate. Sherlock follows him up and goes into the bathroom to do the things humans do before going to bed. When he comes out again and makes for his own room, John takes his hand in his mouth (gently, like a mother wolf carrying her pup). Sherlock is confused. John guides him to his bedroom. He wants to stick close to his packmate. Sherlock’s understanding blooms visibly. 

John jumps up onto the bed and burrows under the covers. He turns a few times, then curls up. Sherlock gets in on his side. It must be his side by now. Their warmth heats the bed. Perfect. But maybe it could be better. He shifts again to rest his head on Sherlock’s chest and shoulder. Sherlock’s arm reaches around and his hand buries itself in John’s fur again. He strokes him gently. John is drifting off to sleep already. Sherlock’s pyjama top smells lovely. His eyes droop.


	9. 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this fic is about to earn its explicit rating. This is easily one of my favourite chapters just for its main events. Let me know what you think!
> 
> We're about midway now! The next few chapters are nice and long.

John wakes, human now, when the sun is beginning to rise. His head is still resting on Sherlock’s shoulder, and now he has a hand atop Sherlock’s ribs. Sherlock’s fingers are still twined in his hair. He’s surprised that he didn’t wake Sherlock with his change. Or maybe he did. In any case, Sherlock is sleeping now. He watches his chest gently rise and fall. He’s very comfortable, and he wants to sleep more, but he’s also very hungry. Stretching out, he remembers that he’s naked. Naked and cuddled up to Sherlock — his wolf clearly didn’t think this through. Sherlock’s arm tightens around him to keep him close. He makes a soft, sleepy noise. John smiles.

He’d love to stay, but he really does need to eat. He shifts away from Sherlock, who tightens his arm again with a noise of protest and wakes a bit. John gets out of bed and pulls on his dressing gown. When he turns back to the bed Sherlock is watching him, sleepy-eyed. 

“I’m getting breakfast. Want some?”

Sherlock makes a noise that means he could probably be persuaded to eat something and rolls into John’s warm spot, face mushed into the pillow.

“Come down in a few minutes then,” John says, and goes downstairs.

When Sherlock emerges more than just a few minutes later, John is making an omelette while snacking on toast and jam. Sherlock moves to stand behind him (closer than usual, or is John imagining things?) and watches over his shoulder. For a second, John expects arms around his waist and a kiss to the back of his neck. It’s been years since he’s had that. He holds his toast up over his shoulder and Sherlock takes a bite before moving away to get his cup of tea. Their movements feel close and warm and domestic, more so than their life in Baker Street usually does. John can feel things shifting. So far, they’re going in a good direction. He just hopes it will continue that way.

Sherlock seems to be in good spirits today, despite last night’s black mood. He looks even more dishevelled now than when he woke up. There are two pink spots on his cheeks and his eyes are brighter now, sleepiness gone. They eat many rounds of breakfast in companionable silence. John half wants to discuss Sherlock’s dislike of being in wolf form, now that he’s in a good mood, but his other half wants to leave it, wants not to spoil the happier atmosphere. It’s true that last night Sherlock was taking too much control over his wolf. That will only end in tears if it continues. But John thinks it’s probably something Sherlock should find out himself, rather than be lectured to.

“What do you want to do today?” he asks instead.

Sherlock shrugs. It’s grey and windy; admittedly, leaving the cottage doesn’t hold much appeal. Hopefully it won’t rain later.

“Do you want to go out?”

“We’ll be going out tonight,” Sherlock replies. Of course, he doesn’t sound too keen on the idea.

“We are,” John agrees.

“And then the next day we’re going back to London.”

“Well, if that’s what you want. We can leave as soon as I’m awake enough to drive back.”

“Yes, good.”

“We can stay for longer if you want to, uh, hide out from Mycroft.”

“No. He won’t bother me for another month,” Sherlock says. “Or you,” he adds as an afterthought.

“You’re sure? He did try to kidnap you, and he’s very… interfering.”

“Once this is over he won’t care until the next full moon. We need to get back to London. To cases. Normality.”

John sighs. But maybe London is what Sherlock needs to accept his new normality. He’s had a rough time ever since he got bitten; no wonder he wants some familiarity and routine.

“Well. Last night tonight,” he says.

Sherlock nods. He gets up and goes to his violin. Obviously today will be a musical day.

  
  
***  
  


Sherlock’s composition was confused, slow, depressing, but John took heart from the slightly more hopeful part at the end. He wonders what prompted that bit. Now they’re getting ready to go out. Sherlock is grumbling about the rain.

“Two hours in this?”

“You wolf won’t mind. And when we change back we’ll be here and warm and dry.”

His mind flicks back to their warm, comfortable night last night. Cuddling. Although that word sounds strange in association with Sherlock. Embracing? No. Cuddling it is. He wonders if there’ll be a repeat. They do seem to keep ending up in bed together. That didn’t come out how he meant it. _Damn it_. And now Sherlock is stripping. _Damn, damn, damn._

He occupies himself with turning off the lights and opening the door. A gust of wind sends it flying open. Raindrops spatter over the floor. Sherlock looks even less impressed.

“Maybe it’ll let up,” John says, stripping off.

“Two hours only,” Sherlock say, then changes.

John is pleased that his changes are coming with more ease now. That can only be a good sign. John changes after him and together they pace out of the door.

  
  
***  
  


It’s an experiment, he’s decided. A constant experiment. Last night he took almost total control of his wolf, and it made him miserable, a human consciousness stuck in a wolf body that it was never meant to take complete control of. It made his wolf miserable too, able to run but trapped by the human mind that had taken over. Last night had been miserable all round (until he was allowed to touch John, and then John wanted him to stay, in his bed, and lay on Sherlock, and then his change — fascinating).

So now, tonight, he will run the experiment until different conditions, fiddle with the variables. It won’t be as scientific as he’d like it to be. There’ll be a lot of analysing emotions — his own emotions — but he thinks that he’s learning how. He knows for sure that he doesn’t want to be miserable. He wants to be able to enjoy changing the way that John does. If he can. So tonight he is allowing his wolf a little more control, letting it do what it wants, but always hovering, ready to grab control back whenever necessary.

It’s working well so far. He can feel that his wolf is a little tense from the constant observation, but it’s not miserable. John has noticed the difference too. He’s happier, less worried than last night. He was right, too; the rain isn’t bothering them in wolf form at all. Even so, they naturally gravitate to the trees and the cover they provide. Scents are muted in the rain and it’s frustrating his wolf. It wants to smell as well as it could before. They can’t hunt and track like this.

Instead they play, chase, fight. Sherlock enjoys the fighting. He’s much better at fighting in human form — he knows his body and its strengths and limitations — but he’s still learning in wolf form. Every time they fight he picks up a new trick from John, a new way of predicting his opponent’s next move. He knows John lets him win sometimes, but he’s starting to win fairly, by himself. He wonders whether John is training him up for London, for the violent packs that he mentioned, the ones he was attacked by. At least now John won’t be fighting them alone.

John nudges him back towards the cottage. Have they really been out that long already? Sherlock hasn’t noticed the time passing quite so quickly. He decides that his unscientific experiment was a success. They run back to the cottage through the pouring rain and shake off once inside, spraying water droplets everywhere. John is pleased with him, he can feel it, and he likes it. It’s not quite as good as John’s praise, but it’s still a good feeling. John is his packmate, his praise-giver, his protection, as well as someone to protect.

Sherlock pushes the door shut and they both change back. Each time it’s easier and slightly less painful. But once he’s back in human form they both immediately start shivering — they didn’t light a fire today and the damp, chilly wind has been blowing through the house for the past two hours. Sherlock’s teeth chatter. So do John’s.

“Right,” John says. “Shower, now, both of us. Before our pathetic human bodies get hypothermia.”

He herds Sherlock upstairs, packmate, protection. Sherlock’s mind is still dazed, a little tied up with his wolf’s, so he doesn’t know if he’s imagining the feeling of John’s eyes on his naked arse or not.

It seems like mere seconds pass, then they’re both in the shower, squeezing together to get as much hot water as possible. John reaches up past Sherlock to adjust the shower head and Sherlock thinks he feels something in both of them snap.

Then he doesn’t think much, because John has him pressed against the wall and is sucking at his neck. Sherlock clutches at his arms, slides his hands down, around John’s waist, to his lower back. The cold of the tiles hardly registers on his back but John’s body against his prickles with heat, almost stings. John grabs one of Sherlock’s cold hands from his back and brings it to his mouth. He looks into Sherlock’s eyes (his eyes are wild, wolfish) and slides his mouth down over Sherlock’s cold index finger. Sherlock gasps, the sound echoing off the bathroom tiles. John’s mouth is warm, so warm, and soft and wet and Sherlock _wants_ like he’s never wanted anyone before. John's tongue traces along and around Sherlock’s finger. Sherlock’s other hand slips to John’s arse and pulls him closer. His cock presses against John’s belly and he groans, eyes fluttering shut. John relinquishes Sherlock’s finger and goes back to his neck, leaves a mark. Sherlock’s legs tremble. He wants, he needs, he wants to make John feel good too. He bends his knees, just enough to line their cocks up, his hands on John’s arse guide them together. John’s hips push once, twice, sliding their cocks against each other. Sherlock groans John’s name.

Then John is out of his arms, blinking rapidly as water sprays into his eyes. The wild glint is gone. 

“No, we can’t. It— I’m not looking for— it was just instinct. Our wolves fucking with us. We can’t.”

He almost stumbles as he gets out the shower, grabs a towel and disappears. Sherlock stares dumbly after him, brain attempting to catch up, trying to understand. John was just as hard as he was (still is), he wanted it too, so why leave him? He pushes away from the wall, stands for a minute, two, then switches the shower off and retreats to his own room with a towel. He is still perplexed. John initiated. John let Sherlock into his bed, more than once, John stroked his hair, John suggested, no, stated, that they shower together. But it was John that ran away.

Sherlock dries off, then flops onto the bed. His cold bed, without John. Without the heat of John’s body against his. John’s hot mouth around his finger. Fuck. Sherlock’s now limp cock is swelling again as he imagines John’s body against his, John sucking his finger, John’s cock rubbing against his. God. Sherlock slides his hand slowly down his stomach and brushes his palm up the length of his cock. His breath catches in his throat.

He rolls onto his side, back to the door, and wraps his hand fully around his thickening cock. He strokes, keeping the pace leisurely, not like he normally does. And unlike he normally does, he allows himself to think of John. Finishing what they started in the shower. Rutting against each other until they come. John dropping to his knees and sucking on Sherlock’s cock like he did his finger.

He bites his lip to keep his moan from escaping. Never before has this felt so good. He tightens his hand around his cock, imagines John’s mouth on him. His hips jerk. Oh, God. John sucking him until he comes down his throat. Sherlock dragging him back up, spinning them so John is pinned against the tiles, wrapping his hand around John’s dick and stroking him, just like this, hand tight around him, with a little twist at the top of each stroke, _yes_. John’s hips jerking into his fist, just like this. Sherlock’s back arches and as the John of his imagination comes, Sherlock comes too, barely cutting off a moan. John, John, _John_.

Sherlock rolls onto his back, breath coming in short pants. He usually tries to deal with this kind of thing quickly and efficiently, or just ignores it, but if it’s always like that from now on, well. That would be preferable.

It’s late (or early) and Sherlock is sleepy, sated. Tomorrow they’ll go back to London and… carry on like normal? Or tiptoe around each other awkwardly?

  
  
***  
  


John wakes him the next morning. From the doorway. Normally if John wakes him it involves a hand on his shoulder, but it seems that may have changed now. Will they stay like this from now on? He has learnt to enjoy the physical (and emotional) closeness of another human being with John. He doesn’t want that to disappear now that he has it.

“The owner is coming at midday to check the place over and collect the keys,” John says. “You need to get up and packed.”

Sherlock sits up and looks at John. He sees a flash of him wet and naked and wanting. He contemplates saying something. But maybe this will resolve itself naturally. He can’t imagine them apart. That won’t happen.

John hovers awkwardly for a moment, then leaves. He gets up. He was sticky before he fell asleep, but now the residue is dry and pulling on his skin. He shuffles to the bathroom, but decides to just wash at the sink rather than take a shower.

John is making himself busy in the kitchen when Sherlock comes to collect his things downstairs. He actually feels the atmosphere solidify when John realises he’s there. His wolf feels it too. Should he say something? That they can forget it and carry on as normal? Is that what John wants?

No, he won’t say anything. Not yet. He needs to get a better read on how John feels about the situation. He gathers his violin and his music and goes back upstairs to finish packing. Breakfast is awkward. John has made tea for him, so all is not lost, but the silence is strained. Thankfully it’s eventually interrupted by the arrival of the cottage’s owner.

Sherlock loads their things into the car as John deals with the owner. He isn’t looking forward to the car journey, which would have been boring enough without this awkward silence between them. But things will feel better as soon as they’re back in Baker Street, he’s sure.

  
  
***  
  


Things are not better. Or they are, but they aren’t. They arrive at Baker Street with the dusk, in the early evening, and go up to the flat to find Mycroft waiting for them, looking as pompous as ever and as if he has every right to be there. Sherlock scowls at him and goes straight through to his bedroom with his things. He hears Mycroft congratulate John on evading him. He hears John saying it was easy. This will come around to the topic of Weres shortly. Maybe his presence will be necessary. Reluctantly he leaves his room.

“Sherlock.” Mycroft’s smile is slimy.

“Mycroft.”

“I trust there were no issues over the past few days.” His face holds a different conversation with Sherlock. His face says that he knows that Sherlock found it hard. But he hasn’t figured out what’s happened between John and him yet. Sherlock hopes he never will.

“It went much better than it would have in your private centre, yes.”

Mycroft looks doubtful.

“Do you think we don’t know what we’re doing, Mycroft?” John asks. “That Sherlock needs doctors and psychologists to hold his hand?”

Sherlock feels a little bloom of warmth. John is still defending him to Mycroft.

“Precisely,” Mycroft replies. “I don’t think Sherlock knows what he is doing.”

“He does now,” John say. “He’s learnt, and I think he took it very well.”

“Yes, last night was a success,” Sherlock says. _The wolf part of it, anyway_ , he thinks.

John looks uncomfortable at the reminder of last night.

“Do you not agree, John?” Mycroft asks.

John schools his face into a more neutral expression. “No, I agree. Last night was the best change Sherlock had. He’s making progress.”

John’s tone implies that there’s still more to be done. Sherlock had expected that. It won’t matter for another month, though. Mycroft stands. Apparently he’s got all the information he wanted. The goodbyes are tense. Sherlock is keen to get rid of him, and John isn’t too fond of Mycroft either. Mycroft himself won’t hang around for a social visit once he’s got what he wants.

“I thought you said he wouldn’t be bothering you for another month,” John says, when Mycroft is gone.

He’s angry. Sherlock doesn’t quite understand why.

“I didn’t anticipate an in-person check up,” Sherlock admits.

“If he tries to abduct you again this month I’ll break his bloody pompous nose.”

Sherlock is pleased until John blushes and spins around to grab his bag.

“I’m going to unpack,” he says, already disappearing upstairs. “Order in for dinner.”

Sherlock sighs. He doesn’t want whatever happened in the shower to distance them, but it seems like that’s what’s happening.

  
  
***  
  


Thankfully Lestrade calls in with a case the next morning that keeps them busy for the next week. Sherlock largely blocks out his rant about them vanishing for the past few days, and his worry that _not even Mycroft_ knew where they’d gone. John calms Lestrade and offers a quiet explanation that Sherlock ignores. He doesn’t think John says explicitly what they were doing, but Lestrade had been called when Sherlock was bitten, and he’s not entirely an idiot (probably the best detective on the force, in fact, not that Sherlock would say that out loud) and he knows how long a month is. Sherlock is quite sure he’ll figure out their disappearance in his own slow time.

The case goes smoothly, easily, dragged out by the complexity of its hidden clues. At last they tumble back home. Sherlock is triumphant, buzzing with success. His wolf is alert and running happy circles in his head. John is exhausted (Sherlock kept him awake a lot) but still grinning at Sherlock’s genius, praising him. It makes Sherlock glow. He feels the praise thrumming through his veins. But then John announces that he’s going to bed to sleep for the next three days, and Sherlock’s warm glow is dimmed by a rush of disappointment. It takes him a while to process (emotions were never his forte). John is in bed, and Sherlock is ready for bed but still alight with energy when his disappointment slots into place.

He didn’t want John to leave, to take himself away to bed alone. He wanted John to stay with him, to bask in this post-case glow with him, to call him amazing and a genius and brilliant. His energy was _shining_ , they could have done anything. Stayed up for hours talking and slowly winding down with a bad film? John would fall asleep and Sherlock would wake him and send him stumbling sleepily to bed so he wasn’t uncomfortable in the morning. Or they would fall into the flat, and John would praise him, and Sherlock would swallow up the praise with greedy lips on John’s, and—

He realises now, belatedly, that they never kissed in the shower. John’s lips touched his neck, left marks that have faded now, but never touched Sherlock’s lips. He thinks that would have felt more intimate. He wants that: comfortable intimacy. He’s never imagined that he could have that with someone.

But no. He can’t. John doesn’t want it. It was just their instincts running high. Just their wolves. Or just John’s, at least. He knows it was more than that for him.

He picks up his violin. He finds the music he started composing at the cottage.

It was… good of John to realise that the beginning of the piece was the cottage. He’s less sure he’d write it the same way, now, after all that happened there. Maybe he should take the cottage theme and subvert it, and finish the piece that way. Or maybe he shouldn’t finish it at all. He doesn’t want things to stay in this state. Not the way his changes are, and not the way things are between John and himself. They’re an almost-something, but John blocked that path, and they can’t be what they were before. Which makes them what, now? Nothing? Sherlock is not very good at figuring out relationships which aren’t clear-cut. That had been the problem with Victor.

He plays and scribbles out his music for the rest of the night, then finally collapses as the dawn breaks and sleeps for hours and hours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can always hit me up at hannahrrrr.tumblr.com :)  
> If anyone is interested in getting a tag on tumblr when I post a new chapter, let me know!


	10. 10

The month progresses with astonishing rapidity, quicker than any month has a right to, Sherlock thinks. A combination of cases, normality and time eases the tension between them and soothes Sherlock’s worry that they’ll lose what they have. Things are neutral now between them, business as usual, but his mind wanders to John more often and his hand wanders between his legs more often. Towards the end of the third week back, Mycroft makes a predictable move and picks John up from work for a chat.

> No specialist centre,

Sherlock texts John when Mycroft has released him.

> Of course not. Never,

John replies.

Sherlock spends an evening trawling the internet for information about the Were packs of London, but finds nothing except people loudly proclaiming that they saw a wolf.

And then it’s the first night of the change. John has warned him to allow his wolf more control, that his instincts will prove more important in London than at a cottage in the middle of nowhere. Sherlock will do his best to heed his advice, but he finds the skill of relinquishing control a tough one to master.

John takes him outside and round the back of 221. There’s a tiny yard where they keep the bins with an even tinier lean-to that barely merits the title of shed. This is where they will change, private, unobserved. Together they cram into the minuscule shed and start to strip. Sherlock realises that they haven’t been naked together since the shower. He’s almost sure the air is humming. John, usually unfazed by nakedness, looks awkward and embarrassed, and quickly changes into wolf form. Sherlock follows suit. Again, this time, it’s easier.

There is no room for two large wolves in the lean-to. Sherlock spills out into the yard, followed by John. He can feel that John is more relaxed in this form, not tense like he has been for the past month.

Relaxed, but also more alert. London isn’t like Sussex. They have to be on their guard in case there are any packs roaming around that decide to start a fight.

John nudges Sherlock’s head with his muzzle. _Stop thinking_ , it means. Right, yes. Because he has to let his instincts guide him more in the city. Sherlock carefully takes a (metaphorical) step backwards and allows his wolf more control. He can feel its excitement at being let loose.

John leads them out of the yard and cautiously down the alley. London is so much noisier than Sussex. Traffic, roaring engines, sirens. There aren’t a lot more smells, but they’re different. Food, spices, dogs. No salt in the air, no sea. When they reach the opening of the alley, Sherlock has to pause as the sensory flood assaults his senses. John is waiting, anyway. They need to cross Baker Street. It’s late (or early), so there aren’t as many humans around, but there are still a fair number, and in cars too. John is poised, all attention focused on the road. He sees a gap, looks over his shoulder to check Sherlock is still with him and paying attention, then sprints across the road. Sherlock follows on his heels.

They enter into the darkness of the alley opposite. John hesitates. There’s a figure huddled at the other end. But — Sherlock sniffs — he’s off his face. Probably not a threat. Sherlock trots forward. The figure looks blearily at them but doesn’t seem to register them. John nudges past to lead the way. Sherlock’s wolf could use his detailed mental map of London, but it’s much more focused on the immediate area. There’s a scuffle behind them, and they both spin to look. Just a cat. It arches its back and hisses at them. John flicks an ear in amusement, then carries on.

Staying away from the main roads, full of humans and vehicles, takes them on a long and winding route. They sprint across another road, and then they’re standing in the shadows of a park wall. John leads them along, sticking close to the wall, until he reaches a spot where they can leap up and squeeze through a gap in the railings.

John doesn’t relax once they’re in the park. It’s closed, so they don’t have to worry about humans, but if John has discovered this way in, other Weres probably have too. Sherlock sniffs at the nearby trees and bushes, trying to pick up another pack’s scent. Nothing.

John takes him to a large, open plain of grass. Here they can relax their guard a little; anyone approaching them will be easily seen. Sherlock wags his tail. His wolf (and he himself) is pleased that John has brought them somewhere that they can play. John sees his excitement and offers him the wolfish version of a grin. This will be much better than prowling cautiously through dark alleys.

Sherlock starts to circle John, who slowly spins to follow his progress. This is a dance of tiny motions and signs. John is watching closely to predict when he will pounce. Sherlock is watching closely for any signs of a counter-attack. The moment is tense with concentration.

He pounces. John neatly dodges. Sherlock rolls over himself, spins around, but John is already flying at him. They crash to the ground together, rolling over and over. He scrabbles with his back legs in an attempt to fling John off him. A car somewhere outside the park backfires, and Sherlock loses his concentration. John nips his throat to let him know he’s lost, then climbs off. He scrambles up and huffs. He’s not this bad at fighting in human form.

_Second round?_ says John’s body language. Yes. More practice is needed. And more time close to John, too. They have no tension between them when they’re like this.

John dashes away and Sherlock gives chase. His legs are slightly longer and he catches up easily, tackles John to the ground, fends off his defences. This time Sherlock wins. The next two times John comes out on top. They run and chase and fight some more, and soon John backs off. Time to go home.

Already? Time has flown. They’ve been out longer than two hours, this time. Carefully, they make their way back to 221’s back alley, silent and unspotted. They squeeze into the hardly-a-shed and change back.

“You did well,” John says, as they quickly dress. The night is chilly. “That was good.”

Sherlock feels uneasy, like he always does upon changing back. He has memories coursing through his mind seen through a different scope, largely sense-based, strange and incongruent to his human perspective. But John’s praise helps.

They go up to 221B and drink tea together. There’s a blanket of calm spread over the city at this hour. They don’t talk but things feel relaxed. It makes a pleasant change. The flat is warm, the tea is soothing, their wolves are calm. Tea finished, John bids Sherlock goodnight and goes upstairs to his room. Sherlock goes to his own room. His wolf doesn’t like this loneliness, not after the hours of camaraderie and pack spirit tonight.

He just can’t get enough of John, especially now, around changes. He needs him close. But John doesn’t want that. Does he? He has no way to know. He turns his pillow lengthways and sprawls across it. It’s a pitiful substitute for human comfort, but he can’t do any better. It doesn’t matter: exhausted from the night’s activities, he’s asleep in minutes.

  
  
***  
  


Sherlock eats approximately half the contents of the flat when he wakes up in the early afternoon. He’s astounded that he’s not the size of Mycroft. The process of changing must play around with human energy levels and metabolism. That might be an interesting premise for an experiment.

“Just because last night went well doesn’t mean you can lower your guard tonight,” John warns him in the shed. 

He knows that, of course. He wonders if John is actually trying to warn himself, but more figuratively speaking.

They change and head out to the park again. Inside there are no signs of anyone, just the acrid scent of alcohol spilt in darkened corners, and the detritus of other, more unpleasant addictions. John leads Sherlock away from there quickly. They go to their patch of open grass. It’s much the same as last night. Play, run, fight. Having the space to be in wolf form and run is a heady, liberating feeling. He allows his wolf just a touch more control.

They’re running when John suddenly stops and barks a warning at him. No, not at him, _to_ him. He picks up the scent just a second later. Three wolves, at the edge of their grassy area, watching them. Even from here he can sense their hostility.

The other pack approaches. When they get too close John growls at them. _Back off_. Sherlock’s wolf copies the growl. His human side finds John growling very… interesting. The three wolves appear unconcerned. John steps forward, in front of Sherlock, rises up, makes himself look bigger.

The pack pays him no heed. Their leader stands facing John, too close. Clearly looking to start a fight. John is doing everything he can to warn them off, but Sherlock can only feel hostility from them. John takes a warning step forward.

It all happens very quickly, then. The leader lashes out, claws John around the face. Sherlock’s careful control snaps. They hurt John, _his_ John, his packmate. He pushes between John and his attacker, snarling. John’s yelp of pain echoes in his ears. Two against three. John is a good fighter, but he’s been injured. The tension rises again, the wait for the first pounce, but it’s not fun like it had been between him and John. 

The wolf to the right of the leader leaps for him first, catching him unawares. He fights back, takes a few scratches, but then he’s knocked down by another. He scrambles up.

John? John was the one who’d knocked him over. John wants him to stop fighting and _just run_ , but these wolves have hurt his packmate, and he wants them to hurt too. John swipes a paw at him — just hard enough to sting. John is bleeding. He wants to run. He can’t leave John alone. John takes off running and he follows. It’s over in seconds.

They don’t stop until they reach the gap in the railings. There’s no one — wolf or human — here. Outside the park is a world of caution before they can get home, but here, for the moment, is safe. John has blood on his face. He steps in to look more closely, then gently, carefully, licks the blood away, runs his tongue over the cuts, caring and healing. John leans against him for just a moment, energy spent.

The journey back to the flat is uneventful. Sherlock leads. He has to protect John. They change back, shivering, in the shed, and he hustles John up to the flat and into the bathroom. 

“I’m fine, Sherlock, really,” John tries to protest.

He shushes him and examines the cuts. “It’s not fine. They hurt you. They made you bleed.”

John brushes him off and stands to examine his cuts in the mirror. They’re not so deep, fortunately, three parallel lines running along his cheekbone. He’d turned his head in time to avoid any worse.

“See, it’s fine,” he says. “They’ll heal in no time. Especially when we change tomorrow.”

Sherlock frowns.

“You heal slightly quicker in wolf form,” John explains. “Unless it’s a… complex injury.” He has that faraway look that he gets when he’s remembering Afghanistan. 

“We need to disinfect your wounds,” Sherlock says, effectively distracting John from painful memories.

“You already started that in the park,” John says, fetching what he needs to clean the cuts.

Sherlock feels his cheeks heat. He licked John’s face. Which was probably not good. Does it matter to John that they were in wolf form?

John sees his expression and grins, then winces as it pulls on his cuts.

“Really, Sherlock, it’s fine. You were following your instincts to protect and heal a pack member.”

“Except I didn’t protect you. We ran away.”

“I prefer ‘staged a strategic retreat’,” John says. “We’d both be much worse off than this if we’d stayed.”

So… John is okay with him following his instincts in wolf form, but not in human form.

“John, I want to try something.”

John looks instantly suspicious. “Does it involve body parts?”

“No. I want to try changing back in my sleep, the way you did.”

John chews on his lip as he cleans his cuts. It’s one of his thinking tics.

“How easy do you find it to change back now? Be honest.”

“I hardly had to concentrate at all tonight. Changing back has always been easier.”

“But you don’t even like being in wolf form that much.”

Sherlock shrugs. “It’s growing on me. I want to experience this.”

And he also thinks he’ll enjoy it more if he can be in his wolf form, following his wolf instincts, while John is in his human form.

John packs away the first aid box. “Fine. But you have to let me stay with you. That way I can wake you up if you can’t change back unconsciously.”

“Agreed.”

  
  
***  
  


John is up before Sherlock the next morning. Sherlock is woken by his stomach, in turn woken by the smell of breakfast cooking. He wraps himself in his dressing gown and shuffles through to the kitchen.

“Morning,” John says cheerily. “Just.”

He’s busy at the stove cooking up delicious-smelling things. Sherlock is ravenous, but there’s something much more important to deal with first.

“Let me see,” he says, crowing into John’s personal space.

“Let you see what? Oh, right.”

John turns so that he can see the cuts on his face. Sherlock rests his fingers on his jaw and gently tilts his face towards the light.

“They’re not so bad, see?”

He’s right. They’re not very deep, and are already starting to heal at the edges.

“Sit,” John says, pulling his face away from Sherlock’s fingers. “I’m feeding you up today. You’ll need your energy if you want to stay in wolf form for longer tonight.”

He dislikes having to eat so much for a few days each month, but at this point he’s so hungry that his stomach is hard to ignore. John slides him a plate of toast.

“Full English coming right up.”

  
  
***  
  


“I feel like a whale,” Sherlock complains as they leave the flat that night. John has stayed true to his word and provided Sherlock with an impossible amount of food throughout the day.

“You sound like one of my girlfriends,” John replies.

“What?” Is this some obscure pop culture reference he’s missed?

“Nothing.”

John goes quiet after that. They’re not going to the park tonight, in case the aggressive pack is still lurking about. John has said he’ll take them to some quieter suburban areas, where fewer people will be about at this time of night. When they return to Baker Street, they’ll wait for the street to be as clear as possible before he sneaks Sherlock up to the flat. If anyone sees them, they’ll assume Sherlock is a very large dog.

They strip, change and set off. They have a long way to go to get to quieter streets. They planned their route together, Sherlock’s mental map of London very much useful. They’re having to keep quite tight control over their wolves for the navigation. Sherlock doesn’t mind (his wolf does) but he can feel John’s wolf getting agitated, let loose but unable to run.

They reach the suburbs eventually, and wander through a winding maze of streets. The second they find one which is completely silent, John is off, racing down it at full speed. He chases after. They continue until they hear a car and have to dash behind some wheelie bins. This is how it goes for another hour. It’s not quite as satisfying as running in the park is, and that’s not as satisfying as Sussex was. Here, they’re limited.

They sneak back to the flat. Once, they hear a shout of surprise, but they run to hide in the next alley, and no one comes. In the shed, John changes back into human form and collects Sherlock’s clothes. They wait together for a few minutes before going onto Baker Street. John’s hand is steady on Sherlock’s back.

Soon they’re back inside. Sherlock races up the stairs and into the flat, then sits in the living room giving John a doggy grin, tongue hanging out. He has a plan for this evening. It will be brilliant.

John stands in the doorway looking at Sherlock, amused. Sherlock’s tail wags slowly against the floor.

“I’d offer you tea, but I don’t think your current taste buds would appreciate it,” John says.

Sherlock locates John’s empty mug on the coffee table and picks it up by the handle. It hangs sideways from his mouth. Lack of opposable thumbs is awkward. He trots over to John, spilling a few drops of cold tea on the carpet, and holds the mug up to him.

“Of course I was planning on having one anyway,” John says, taking the mug.

Sherlock is pleased at his own ability to communicate despite being in wolf form. He follows John to the kitchen and waits as he rinses the handle of his mug and makes tea. That done, he heads to his armchair, but Sherlock huffs at him and nudges him towards the sofa.

“I thought you’d want the sofa to sprawl out on,” John says, sitting at one end.

Well, that _is_ true, but John being on the sofa does not impede his sprawling. Especially not now he’s in wolf form. Sherlock jumps up onto the sofa and sprawls out, stretching his body across the unoccupied length of sofa and resting his chin on John’s thigh.

“Christ,” says John, quickly moving his tea so that Sherlock doesn’t spill it. “Right. I see.”

Sherlock wags his tail just once. John relaxes into the sofa and rests his left hand between Sherlock’s shoulders, drinking his tea with his other. Sherlock sighs and lets his eyes fall half shut. He isn’t tired, but he can feel that John is.

When Sherlock glances up a few minutes later he sees that John’s mug is drooping dangerously. He wriggles. John jerks awake again, splashing hot tea over his hand and hissing in pain. Sherlock jumps up and licks his hand. The taste of tea is offensive to his wolf taste buds. He licks around his own mouth, his nose, trying to get rid of the taste. John laughs.

“I told you,” he says.

He loves John’s laugh. He wonders if he can get away with licking John’s cheek too, but decides it might be too obvious. Instead he clambers around the sofa, trying and failing to get comfortable in John’s lap.

John laughs again. “Quit it, Sherlock. You’re not a lap dog.”

Sherlock gives up with a huff and sprawls his front half over John’s lap. Then he decides that’s not good enough and rolls onto his back, legs in the air.

“Settled now?” John asks, grinning.

He slides a hand into the soft fur on Sherlock’s chest and Sherlock decides that yes, he’s settled now. This feels lovely, just as he expected.

“I thought I’d be stopping you from destroying the furniture,” John says. 

Sherlock flicks an ear. Ridiculous. He likes their furniture, so he respects it (except the kitchen table. That’s expendable). John hums softly, gently stroking Sherlock’s chest. The tune is from the piece Sherlock is composing. Part of the cottage section. His eyes drift closed.

  
  
***  
  


“…Sherlock.”

It isn’t the first time John has said his name. Sherlock lifts his head and rolls onto his belly. He’d been dozing, daydreaming about running in open fields with John.

“We can’t go to sleep here. Get up. Let’s get ready for bed.”

He jumps down from the sofa, stretching his joints out. When he goes through to his bedroom he finds that it smells strongly of his human scent. _Den_ , his wolf thinks. He hops up on the bed and turns a few circles before settling down, leaving half the bed free for John. John is upstairs getting ready for bed. Sherlock listens to him following his routine then coming back down, slight hesitation at the top of the stairs, slight hesitation outside Sherlock’s door.

His wolf approves of John coming in here. Their scents start to mingle in Sherlock’s den, which is perfect, just right. John sits on the bed, arranges the pillows, props himself up against the headboard. Sherlock is comfy, but he has to get up now because John is being ridiculous. He drags the covers back with his teeth and looks expectantly at John.

“No, I need to stay awake to keep an eye on you,” John protests.

Sherlock huffs and takes John’s wrist (gently, even though he’s being an idiot) in his mouth. He tugs slightly.

“Fine, fine, I’ll lie down.”

John settles down on his side and pulls the covers up over him. He’s exhausted. He won’t be able to resist the lull of sleep now that he’s lying down. Sherlock burrows under the covers and curls up in a tight, warm ball, pressed against John’s chest and stomach. Perfect. John’s hand slides into his fur and strokes him slowly, sleepily, and that’s more perfect still.

  
  
***  
  


Sherlock jerks awake a couple of hours later. John is breathing deeply, asleep, his hand buried in Sherlock’s fur. Ah. He’s still in wolf form. But it’s not that long after they went to bed; he can hear the beginning of early morning rush hour. Something’s woken him.

There. He hears the creaky step on the staircase. Not Mrs. Hudson with the tea; she’s much lighter. He wriggles out from under the duvet and listens carefully.

Damn it. He nuzzles at John’s face. _Wake up_.

“Hmm, Sherlock? What—?”

Sherlock glances at the door and growls. Threat. In the flat.

John comes to full alertness instantly. He sits up, and they both hear the inner door to the flat open and close.

“Who is it?” John whispers. “Do we know them?”

Sherlock blinks once, then jumps off the bed and pads to the door, continuing to growl softly in the back of his throat.

“Was that a yes? If it’s someone we know then why are you— Oh.”

Clever John. Sherlock is pleased.

“Wait here.”

John leaves the bedroom and stalks through to the living room, where their uninvited guest is now sitting. Sherlock quietens and pads softly through the kitchen after him. He won’t reveal himself yet.

“Bit early for a social call, isn’t it?” John asks.

“Some of us have been up for a couple of hours already,” Mycroft replies. 

“Some of us only went to bed a couple of hours ago,” John says.

Mycroft doesn’t comment on the fact that John came from Sherlock’s bedroom, but Sherlock can practically hear him thinking it, even from here.

“My team noticed a change in your routine last night, or today, to be more accurate. I’m merely following it up.”

“Spying on us and creeping in on us. That’s what you’re doing.”

“Making sure all is well with my dear brother.”

John is silent for a moment. “You just want to see him in wolf form up close.”

Mycroft hesitates for the minutest of seconds before replying. Surprised (and he’s so rarely surprised). “Very perceptive of you, Doctor.”

“Sherlock?” John calls out. He knows Sherlock wouldn’t wait as told. “Your choice.”

Sherlock is awfully tempted not to give Mycroft the satisfaction of getting what he wants. But he also wants Mycroft to see just how big he is, just how terrifying he can be. Mycroft is only human. Sherlock wants him to see his force and power. His wolf wants that especially.

His wolf wins out. Sherlock puffs himself up big and tall and steps out into the living room. He watches Mycroft closely as he approaches, doesn’t miss the split second where his eyes are wide in shock and just a touch of fear. It’s quickly replaced by an impassive mask, but Sherlock hears John’s almost silent huff of laughter. He saw it too.

“How is wolf life treating you, brother?” Mycroft asks. “Have you decided to see sense and come to our specialist centre yet?”

Sherlock lets out a snarl. John steps closer, but not to protect Mycroft. Sherlock smirks inwardly.

“As you can see,” John says. “Sherlock is just the same as always, and definitely doesn’t need to be locked away in your centre. Now it really is far too early in the morning for this. Leave.”

The last is in his Captain Watson voice, which Sherlock loves unfailingly. Plus, it has the ability of making even Mycroft do as he’s told. There’s a long, silent minute in which Mycroft stares at Sherlock. His wolf takes this as an affront, and starts growling. Just before Sherlock decides to let his wolf snap, Mycroft breaks eye contact and stands.

“Good day, Dr. Watson. Sherlock.”

They both wait until they hear the front door close. John turns on him.

“I saw that, Sherlock. It’s not okay to contemplate attacking your brother, especially when he’s the British government.”

Sherlock whines in protest. _He was provoking me!_

John sighs and rubs at his eyes. “I’m knackered. But you should change back before we go back to bed.”

He’d been hoping to change back in his sleep, but this is a point John won’t budge on, he can tell. Fine. He hushes his wolf, concentrates hard on what it feels like to be human. The change is easier every time.

“Bed,” Sherlock states, in human form once again.

John clears his throat, looking away from Sherlock’s nakedness. “Yeah, uh. Good night, Sherlock. Or, good morning, I guess.”

John intends to go back to his own bed. That’s unacceptable.

“Your bed will be cold. Your bedroom will be cold too; no one’s been in it for almost twenty-four hours. You dislike being cold when you’re trying to sleep.”

“Are you saying—”

“Yes.” _Don’t be a prude, John._

John hesitates, then hesitates some more. Sherlock huffs impatiently and turns around to go back to his room. John’s not that much of an idiot. He’ll come to the correct conclusion.

“Just put some clothes on first!” John calls after him.

Sherlock is in his pyjamas when John comes back into his room. They both settle into their respective sides of the bed without saying anything. Sherlock would love to cuddle, but somehow he doesn’t think that will be acceptable now, in human form, not since what happened in the shower. This will have to be enough. He can hear John’s calm breathing, see him sleep, and tomorrow he’ll be able to smell him on the sheets and pillows. It will be enough, won’t it?


	11. 11

John wakes up much closer to Sherlock than he’d been when they went to sleep. Sherlock has rolled over in his sleep, facing away, and John is curled close behind him, just a few inches away from spooning him. He carefully shuffles backwards. He doesn’t want his body to betray him again. He’s been over this so many times, and he knows that a relationship with Sherlock is something he can never have. He won’t sacrifice what they have. The words ‘Sherlock Holmes’ and ‘relationship’ do not go together. Sherlock doesn’t _do_ that stuff — he told John so right at the start. What happened in the shower was… an exception. A hot, wet, sexy exception, but— _Damn it. Stop thinking about the shower. That’s a surefire way to get awkward morning wood._

John closes his eyes and breathes steadily, easing himself away from a dangerous edge. He sighs softly. He wants what he can’t have so badly, but this bed-sharing thing that they’re apparently doing now is… well, it’s better than anything he thought he’d ever have. He reaches out to touch Sherlock’s curls lightly, then slides out of bed.

It’s mid-afternoon. His sleeping pattern is fucked. Stomach rumbling, he wanders through to the kitchen. Bacon. He needs bacon. He’s cooking a second round of bacon when Sherlock appears in the kitchen looking sleep-rumpled, hair fluffy and messy. Adorable. 

“I woke up and you weren’t there,” Sherlock says.

He quickly turns back to the stove so Sherlock won’t see the pang that gives him written across his face.

“I was too hungry to stay in bed. Want some?” He doesn’t wait for an answer; he knows Sherlock will be hungry.

Sherlock seems put out over breakfast. John wonders if it’s because he woke up alone, or if it’s because they’re back to normal life now and there are no cases. He can’t seem to process the idea that Sherlock _wants_ John in his bed (to sleep, _just_ to sleep. And maybe to cuddle). Sherlock has always seemed starved of physical contact, but at the same time like he scorns it. John goes on dates with women and gets intimate with them. But sometimes he hasn’t had a date for months, and his flatmate and best friend gets turned into a Were, and they start a cuddling thing, and then they run away to the countryside together and end up naked in the shower touching each other and _Jesus Christ_ , John is going to lose his mind. He has seen Sherlock’s penis. He has touched Sherlock’s cock. _Damn_. He really needs to clear his mind.

“I’m going out for a walk,” he tells Sherlock. “Text Lestrade and see if he’s got anything for you to do.”

Sherlock just grumbles and sulks.

  
  
***  
  


John’s walk didn’t really clear his head. He spent the entire time thinking in the same circles he's been thinking in since the cottage. It did improve his mood a bit, until he’d come home to Sherlock bored, caseless, and screech-playing something horrible on the violin. John had been tempted to suggest that they cuddle, or that he stroke Sherlock’s hair, or something like that, because those things seem to calm Sherlock and make him happy, but he hadn’t wanted to be shot down. So he’d held his tongue and endured the screeching until bedtime. It had been his normal time, but once he’d got into bed he’d found that he absolutely could not sleep. He’d only woken up six hours before.

So that’s where he is now, lying in bed trying to fix his broken sleeping habits, staring at the ceiling. He’s probably been here for hours, but looking at the time would be too depressing. At least Sherlock has shut up. Maybe he’s sleeping, lucky sod.

Ah, no. John can hear footsteps on the stairs. His door is pushed open.

“I can’t sleep, John,” Sherlock says, silhouetted in the doorway.

“Me neither. Doesn’t usually bother you.”

Sherlock shrugs. “No case.”

Sherlock crosses the room then, to the bed, to John. He proceeds to ignore all spare space on the bed and lies down almost directly on top of John, head resting on his shoulder. (John does nothing to stop him.) Sherlock breathes out a sigh against his neck. John feels an instant concern (panic) that certain parts of his body will start getting interested. He shifts a little.

“Sher—”

“John,” Sherlock interrupts. 

Sherlock’s deep voice vibrates through his own chest. _God._

“Yes?”

“Be quiet,” Sherlock says.

John is quiet. He thinks about anything that’s not the idea of getting an erection right now.

“Why did you leave this morning?” Sherlock asks.

His voice so close to John’s ear makes all other thoughts vanish. John hesitates. Is he still being quiet, or…?

“You can talk, John.”

“I told you,” John says. “I was too hungry to stay in bed.”

Sherlock makes a frustrated noise and rolls away. He feels grateful (no awkward erections) and disappointed (no Sherlock) in equal measure.

“I don’t know what you want, John!” Sherlock exclaims suddenly. “You initiate and then you pull away, and it’s all so unnecessarily confusing!”

Suddenly he is afraid. This sounds like an incredibly important conversation. Their entire future may hinge on it. He needs to tread carefully.

“I’ve been giving you mixed messages,” he says. “I’m sorry, I’m not normally that much of a dick.”

Sherlock just turns his head on the pillow and gives John a look that says he knows exactly how much of a dick John can be. He’d be offended if it weren’t true.

“I…” He thinks carefully. “I pull away because I don’t want what you want. And it’s not fair on you.”

He doesn’t feel guilty about initiating cuddles or hair stroking. It’s clear that Sherlock enjoys them. But the problem with close, gently physical contact with someone he lo— someone he likes very much is that it’s just too tied up with sex in his mind. Sex and relationships. Which Sherlock has made very clear he does not do. And even if the shower was a sign that Sherlock wants sex (which blows John’s mind just a little, because he’s never been like that) John still can’t do just that. He can’t just have a quick fuck with Sherlock, then carry on as if nothing’s happened. He’s already in too deep for that. So, no. They don’t want the same things.

Sherlock is staring through the darkness at him, visibly trying to figure him out. 

“Alright,” he says eventually. “I understand.”

He rolls away out of bed, stands up gracefully. John wants to say _No wait_ , to pull him back into bed, but apparently he’s been sending enough mixed messages as it is. 

Anyway, he doesn’t need to talk about _cuddling_ and his _feelings_ with Sherlock, because honestly nothing could be harder. So he lets him go. And ignores the pain in his chest as he watches Sherlock walk away.

  
  
***  
  


When John gets up the next morning Sherlock is already out. He hasn’t left a note, but that’s not uncommon for Sherlock. He probably has a case that doesn’t require John’s assistance. He pokes his head into Sherlock’s room, just to make sure he isn’t in, and suddenly he feels overwhelmed by everything that happened last night. He’d lain awake for a long time after Sherlock had left. He thinks that Sherlock thinks that John doesn’t want any contact anymore, not even cuddling. But really, who knows what goes on in Sherlock’s big beautiful brain? At the moment, John isn’t even sure what’s going on in his own brain. He needs to get somewhere he can think. He can’t be here right now, everything is too… everything.

He packs a bag with a few bits. Unlike Sherlock, he leaves a note. He plans to be gone for two days or so, so a note only seems fair, even if Sherlock won’t notice that he’s gone (or will he, now, after everything?). He keeps the note short. He doesn’t want to worry Sherlock with any of this. He just says he’s going to Harry’s for a few days and he’ll be back. On a second read-through he underlines the word ‘will’. He hesitates for a moment, then turns his phone off as well. It will just be a couple of days. Just to sort through his emotions and decide what to do about Sherlock.

  
  
***  
  


Harry’s in a good patch at the moment, although John almost wishes she weren’t because it would give him something to focus on and deal with other than Sherlock. She’s back with Clara and they’re both fine with John crashing on their sofa for a couple of days. Sober Harry is far too inquisitive.

“Did you two have a lovers’ tiff?” she asks.

John has let Harry believe what she wants about his and Sherlock’s relationship for ages now. It’s easier than arguing.

“No, not exactly.”

“No man turns up at his sister’s asking to sleep on her sofa for a couple of days if he hasn’t had a lovers’ tiff.”

“It wasn’t a tiff,” John says. “I just… need to figure some stuff out.”

“You’re not going to leave him, are you?” Harry asks. John looks up sharply. “No, of course not, sorry,” she continues. “You’re obsessed with him.”

Harry has been too busy battling her own demons to notice the changes happening in John’s life, to see how his obsession with Sherlock is probably quite well founded. She didn’t know how bad John was before Sherlock. But even though she doesn’t understand, Harry will dig, dig, dig until she believes she has the full story.

“Harry, stop hounding the poor man,” Clara calls from the kitchen.

Harry sighs exaggeratedly, collapsing back against the sofa. “Fine. But you’re here for a couple of days, so rest assured I will find out your story. I’ve got to get to work.”

Then there’s a flurry of shoes, keys, kisses goodbye, and Harry is gone. Clara, who works from home, comes through and hands John a cup of tea. Where Harry is energy and questions, Clara is calm and no assumptions. John appreciates it.

“‘Obsession’ is unfair,” Clara says. “But you can’t blame her. She didn’t see how Sherlock turned your life around.”

Sometimes he thinks that Clara would make a good therapist. They sit quietly together, drinking tea. It doesn’t feel like Clara wants an explanation from him, which is probably why he starts one.

“You know when you go through something, and it forces you to reevaluate your relationship?”

Clara nods. Of course she does.

“That’s happening. And I’m not leaving Sherlock, but I don’t know if things will be the same if I stay. And if they’re not, will I be able to carry on?”

“Until you know how things will pan out, there’s no way of knowing if you’ll be able to live with it,” Clara says.

He stares into the depths of his tea. Clara looks at her watch.

“I’m going to start work. Let me know if you need anything.”

He spends the day working on a blog post for a case from months ago that still hasn’t been written up. He’s in two minds about whether to write up the Finchley case. He’d have to gloss over a lot of things towards the end: Finchley being a Were, Sherlock getting bitten, John shooting Finchley.

He publishes the blog post and goes out to town.

  
  
***  
  


After dinner, Harry demands to know what progress he’s made in his thinking. She’s like him in that way; she requires action.

“Did you make any decisions?” she asks.

“Other than the fact that I’m not leaving Baker Street? No.”

“Of course you’re not leaving Sherlock,” she says. “You love him too much for that. I don’t get what your problem is.”

“I didn’t say— I don’t— I—” John stutters and then thinks, _Oh, shit._

_Fuck._

“I need to… I’m just… going out for some air.”

He stands up, grabs his coat and leaves the house, feeling like he’s walking through fog, just thinking _Oh God, oh God, oh God…_

He’s been keeping his thoughts steadily away from anything related to Sherlock’s beauty, or his attractiveness, or his sex appeal for ages. John can keep it in his pants when he needs to. He might not have admitted it to himself, but he’s been avoiding thoughts like that. He knows they’re really good mates. Best friends.

Oh, God, when did he fall in love with Sherlock Holmes?

He thought that would be something that gradually happened, if ever they started a relationship (and they would never). But here he is, in love, properly _in_ love and they’ve never even _kissed_. 

How has it taken him this long to catch up with his feelings? Obviously he’s wanted Sherlock for ages. In the shower he almost took what he wanted and Sherlock was responding. But he told John he didn’t want a relationship, before all this, before he had a wolf inside him that he can’t fully control. That would explain why he responded in the shower.

He doesn’t know if this realisation has narrowed or expanded his choices. He wasn’t going to leave Baker Street, but can he continue to live there now that he knows he’s in love with his flatmate? Especially now that they’re confused about their relationship. It seems like he has two options now: stay as close to Sherlock as he can, but suffer the heartbreak of loving someone he can’t have; or try and start a relationship with Sherlock, an attempt that would probably end in rejection and heartbreak and never being able to be the same with Sherlock again. Both outcomes seem awful.

A phone box starts ringing as he passes it. He ignores it. This is why he’s turned his phone off. Any contact from Sherlock (or his brother, about Sherlock) and he’ll just be even more confused. He can’t afford to mess this up.

John ignores the other two phone boxes that he passes on the way back. He’s ended up walking quite far, lost in his thoughts. He braces himself for a barrage of questions when he gets back, but Harry is curiously (mercifully) quiet. It’s probably Clara’s doing.

  
  
***  
  


He’s here to think, but under the weight of his new revelation, John spends the next day steadfastly avoiding thinking about anything to do with Sherlock at all. This proves tricky, because every part of him misses being home at Baker Street, misses being with Sherlock. He thinks about how he wants to go home and just hold Sherlock in his arms.

Sherlock is home as much as Baker Street is home. He thinks about holding Sherlock in his arms, and then he thinks about kissing him on those gorgeous, full lips, and then he has to stop thinking.

His mobile is still switched off.

He wonders what Sherlock thinks of all this. Of John running away (because that’s what he’s doing really, isn’t it?). Does he care? Sherlock notices him more now, even in the middle of cases. He will have noticed. Will he think that John is rejecting his friendship? John isn’t an idiot. He’s aware that Sherlock has real feelings that can be hurt, no matter how hard he tries to hide them from everyone. John doesn’t want to hurt him. He’d never, ever leave him, but he’s not sure if Sherlock knows that or not. He doesn’t think that Sherlock’s ever had someone who loved him that much. He’s not entirely convinced that Sherlock’s even been loved at all. John just wants him to feel loved, to feel positive emotion, not the spiteful jealousy he gets from certain Yarders. He wants to fill him with so much love that it makes him feel like he’ll burst.

Oh, damn it.

Can he do that if Sherlock doesn’t love him back? Can he put himself through that?

  
  
***  
  


He has to go out again and clear his head. He has so many thoughts and feelings swirling around in it right now. He’s been walking for fifteen minutes or so when a sleek black car pulls up beside him. The window slides smoothly down.

“Not now, Mycroft. This is the last thing I need,” John says, continuing to walk along.

The car idles along next to him.

“On the contrary, Dr. Watson,” Mycroft says. “I believe this is something you will want to hear as a matter of urgency."

“Tell me then.”

“Get in the car.”

A few blinds twitch along this suburban street. John decides this will be over quicker if he does as Mycroft says and gets in the car. They pull off at a normal speed, heading towards the city centre.

“Sherlock has disappeared. It seems he has been kidnapped.”

John feels his heart plunge solidly into his gut. “What?”

“Kidnapped,” Mycroft says, with obvious contempt for the repetition. “Taken by someone.”

“I know what it means, I— When?” He wants his gun, he wants to find the people that took Sherlock, he wants to hunt them all, then he wants to take Sherlock home and keep him safe.

“Probably in the early hours of yesterday,” Mycroft says. 

“So it’s been two days? The whole time I’ve been at Harry’s? So he was taken before I even left that morning? Why did no one tell me?”

“Your phone is off,” Mycroft says, calmly (how can he be calm?), “and you ignored the phone boxes.”

_Fuck_. A thought crosses John’s mind and develops horribly.

“I swear to God, Mycroft, if you’ve taken him like you tried to before, and this is some kind of scheme to—”

“Why would I tell you if that were the case?”

“To… to… I don’t know, manipulate me somehow! If this is real, what have you been doing to find him?

“If you want to help us, you’ll have to calm down. A panicked attitude will help no one, least of all Sherlock.”

For a split second John wants to punch Mycroft in his supercilious face. But then he realises the truth of what he’s saying. Panicking doesn’t help. He stares out the window and tries to calm his racing thoughts.

“Where are we going now? What’s the plan?”

“To Baker Street. We need you to help us piece together what happened before Sherlock disappeared.”

In very little time the car pulls up outside 221. Mrs. Hudson lets him in (John’s keys are still at Harry’s and although he’s certain Mycroft has a secret set of keys, Mycroft clearly doesn’t want him to know for sure). Inside the flat Lestrade is pacing up and down, phone in hand.

“John, thank God, finally.”

“Greg.” John needs tea. He goes into the kitchen to make it. “Talk to me.”

“We didn’t realise anything had happened until late last night. I texted Sherlock with a case, then called him, then called you, but no one answered. Both your phones were off. I thought something had happened to you. You must have been the last person to see Sherlock. When was that?”

John stirs sugar into tea and thinks. Today’s Thursday. “Tuesday night. He was already gone when I woke up Wednesday morning.”

“And did he say anything?”

“No, he— we—”

“Your note suggests you argued.”

John looks at the note he wrote yesterday morning, still on the kitchen table. “Sort of. Not really argued. I think some things… changed.”

He carries the teas through to the living room and avoids all eye contact. Lestrade is in questioning mode, and Mycroft is far too perceptive. He doesn’t need to talk about these things with them.

“Could that be why he went out at 3 a.m.?” Lestrade asks.

“I don’t know. I think he might have been upset.” He slumps in his armchair. “Look, how do we know he hasn’t just gone into hiding for a few days? Maybe he needs some time alone.”

“We have CCTV footage of three men attacking Sherlock and dragging him into an alley,” Mycroft says.

His hand tightens on his mug. Why hadn’t Mycroft told him that already?

Lestrade changes tack. “What about his new, uh, condition? It hasn’t been that long since he was bitten. Could it be related?”

“We only—” John interrupts himself. Lestrade doesn’t know his secret. “He changed recently. Monday night into Tuesday morning was the last change. Sherlock has been fine with it.”

“And he didn’t…?” Lestrade gestures at his own cheek.

“What?” John raises a hand to his face. Oh. The cuts. They’re hardly there anymore, just three pale red lines. “No. No, that was… It wasn’t Sherlock. He wouldn’t.”

Lestrade nods, but doesn’t seem convinced.

“Sherlock has a lot of control over himself in wolf form,” John says. “He wouldn’t lash out at me any more than he would in human form. This isn’t helping. It might not have anything to do with him being a Were.”

“But it might,” says Lestrade. “The timing is suspicious. You both disappeared for his first change, and now he’s been taken so soon after the second?”

John bites his lip. He trusts Lestrade’s instinct. He’s seen how many times he’s been right about a gut feeling.

“Who knows about it besides us?” John asks. He turns to Mycroft. “The people at the hospital?”

“They are all being checked out as we speak,” Mycroft says. “But I can assure you that it is a very private and confidential institution.”

John stands and begins to pace. “What about this CCTV footage?”

“We’re working on identifying the men, but they were hooded, and they knew to avoid the cameras,” Lestrade says.

“We believe they incapacitated Sherlock, then loaded him into a vehicle,” Mycroft adds.

John turns sharply and paces in the opposite direction. He can almost feel time slipping away from them, from Sherlock. He knows how kidnapping cases work. Every minute, the chance of Sherlock being found decreases.

“There’s no ransom? They don’t want money?”

Lestrade smiles without humour. “I don’t think money is what most of the criminal classes want from Sherlock.”

“Show me the CCTV,” John says. He may be coming across as demanding, but with Sherlock gone he can’t bring himself to care.

Mycroft produces a tablet from his briefcase and pulls up the grainy video for John to watch. It’s over in perhaps ten seconds. Sherlock is walking when three men leap out of an alley and drag him in. More than a few punches are thrown, but Sherlock’s attackers had the element of surprise and a punch to his stomach knocks the fight out of him visibly. John rewatches the video three times over. The timestamp says 4:53. He had been sleeping fitfully at that point. He presses play again. The men are hooded, as Lestrade said, and cast in shadow by the streetlights overhead, but there’s something about them…

“Dr. Watson? Do you know these men?” Mycroft asks. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen them before, but there’s something…” He grapples with the sensation of presque vu for a few more moments, but fails to grasp at it. With a sigh of frustration he hands the tablet back to Mycroft. “And the vehicle?” he asks. “Have you traced it?”

“There’s no footage of which vehicle they used,” Lestrade says. “And I think these men would have enough sense to dump it and change vehicles at some point.”

John can see that these techniques are getting them nowhere without Sherlock’s genius for connecting the details. Even Mycroft’s power won’t help things progress any quicker. It seems like they’ll just have to wait for the kidnappers to reveal their hand or slip up. Unless…

John flops into his armchair. Time to work on those acting skills Sherlock tries endlessly to teach him.

“I can see you’re doing all you can,” he says, staring into his mug. “I’m sorry if I overreacted. I’m just worried about him.”

Greg nods in sympathy. John isn’t actually sorry for overreacting. He feels this situation deserves it.

“We’ll tell you as soon as there are any developments,” Lestrade says.

“Thanks, Greg.”

He shows himself out. Mycroft waits a moment longer, looking closely at John.

“Try not to do anything rash, Dr. Watson,” he says finally.

It’s probably impossible to lie to Mycroft Holmes, so he says, “Didn’t Sherlock tell you? Rash is my middle name.”

Mycroft regards him for a moment more, then follows after Lestrade. Now to wait for nightfall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John has a plan...
> 
> Thanks to everyone reading along and sticking with me so far! You can hit me up at hannahrrrr.tumblr.com


	12. 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the longest chapter of the whole fic. Time to resolve that stressy cliffhanger with some more stress.
> 
> And then ofc a dramatic climax with BAMF John for your enjoyment!

John’s wolf has been howling for action for hours. His nerves are bubbling under the surface, but he tries to keep them and his wolf as calm as possible. Logically he knows that he has no choice but to wait for nightfall, but every second spent waiting is putting Sherlock in more danger. He’s working on the assumption that Sherlock is alive. He can’t consider the alternative.

His wolf is impatient. He can almost imagine it glaring accusingly at him. _You said nightfall_. The problem is that sunset is relatively early at this time of year, so even though it’s been dark for a while, the streets are still busy. He forces himself to wait two more hours, then goes down to the shed behind 221.

Quickly he strips and changes. It’s a few days away from the full moon now, but his wolf is just as keen as he is to find Sherlock, so the change is easy. The video Mycroft showed him had the location as well as a timestamp. That’s where he’ll head now.

Progress is slow. There are many busy roads to cross. Sherlock had walked a long way from home before he was attacked, probably lost in his thoughts. John wishes that a wolf in London was a more common occurrence so that he could go more quickly, but he stays cautious. The last thing he needs right now is to have animal control called on him.

Finally he reaches the spot where Sherlock was taken. He wants to sniff around out on the street, to trace the attackers’ scents to their point of origin, but it’s too busy. Quickly he slips into the alley and gives his wolf a little more control.

The scents here are thick: piss, greasy food, alcohol. Sherlock’s human scent is less strong. He sniffs carefully, tries to find any evidence of him. There!

Sherlock. A coppery tang. A drop of his blood. Next to it, someone else’s blood. Probably an attacker: file away the scent. A trail of something dark, deep and sweet leading away from the site of Sherlock’s struggle. Oil. Motor oil. Their vehicle had been leaking. This is perfect. 

He follows the trail, nose to ground, to the end of the alley, and comes up against a gated chain link fence. One corner is turned up. John wriggles through and into a barren warehouse that leads through to a quiet back street. He waits for a van to pass, then follows the oil trail down the street. They’d stuck to back streets, private roads, keeping out of the public eye. It’s a twisting route, but it leads out of the city. Now he’s in a depot, vehicles lined up silently for the night. There the trail stops.

John sniffs carefully around the area. Yes, the vehicle had definitely stopped here. The scent of the oil is stronger; there’s a small puddle of it where the vehicle had been stationary. He tries to find Sherlock’s scent, or the scent of the other person whose blood was spilt. The wind changes direction, and John catches a whiff of Sherlock’s scent. He sprints across the depot. Somewhere around here… Yes, here. Sherlock’s blood, mixed with spittle. He’d been punched in the mouth, and spat out blood.

They’d been here. But where had they taken Sherlock after? John spends over a quarter of an hour trying to find any trace of Sherlock that he can. There’s nothing in the depot. At last he lets out a frustrated growl. His human side forces him to make a note of the exact location of the depot as he slinks out and down the dark alleys towards home.

At 221B, back in human form, he snacks on a huge pile of toast while searching online for anything like suspicious activity around the depot. A knock at the door drags him away from his hunt. He glances at the time. Just after six a.m. Hours have gone by without him even noticing. He gets up and opens the door to find Lestrade.

“Sorry, John, I hate to wake you up.”

John just stares blankly at him.

“Ah,” says Lestrade. “You haven’t slept.”

“No.” Should he offer tea?

“I can’t stop,” says Lestrade, answering his unspoken question. “I’m just popping in before work.”

“Have you found something?” John asks.

“I was tracking vehicles most of the night. But there’s not much progress. We ruled out some of the possibilities, but we have no definite answers yet.”

It seems like John has made more progress by himself.

“Okay, that’s something, I guess,” he says.

Lestrade grimaces as if he knows the news he’s brought isn’t good enough. It hardly even constitutes news.

“I’d better go,” Lestrade says. He starts to leave but then turns back. “We’ll find him, John.”

John carefully schools his expression to show only weary acceptance. “Yeah. Bye, Greg.” He closes the door.

‘We’ll find him’. It’s such an empty platitude. There’s a good chance they will find him; that’s not what worries John. What worries him is what state they’ll find him in.

  
  
***   
  


After Lestrade leaves, he tries halfheartedly to get some sleep. He doesn’t even make it upstairs to his bed, because that would feel too final, too much like giving up. He stretches out along the sofa instead, but his thoughts won’t stop racing. What Lestrade said goes around and around in his mind. What if they find him and it’s too late? His wolf is pacing in agitated circles, irritated at his inaction. Less than an hour later, there’s another knock on the door. He gets up gratefully to answer it.

It’s Mycroft, leaning on his umbrella. He holds out a USB stick.

“You may find this of use,” he says.

John takes it. It’s unlabelled. “What is it?” he asks.

Mycroft ignores his question completely. “Good day, Dr. Watson, and good luck.” He turns and descends the stairs.

John stares at his departing back, USB stick still held out in the air where he took it from Mycroft, and wonders if he’s beginning to hallucinate from lack of sleep.

The contents of the USB, when John plugs it into his laptop, are data-heavy and take a while to open up. He goes to find more food, starving again already, and pours himself a big bowl of cereal. He sniffs the milk and decides to pass on it.

Back at his laptop, with his dry cereal, he checks out the contents of the USB. Video files. He clicks on one at random, and a grainy CCTV video opens up. John recognises the location as the entrance of the small street leading to the depot. The timestamps on the videos range from around three days before Sherlock’s kidnapping to the whole of last night. Hours and hours of footage, which will take forever to run through, but that’s probably his best chance at the moment to help Sherlock. He decides to start at last night, and sets the footage to play in double time.

Mostly nothing happens, the shots static, the only indicator that time is passing the timestamp in the corner. One or two cars pass, but John doesn’t deem them important. Sherlock was at the depot before last night.

At around the four a.m. mark, John slows the video down and watches more closely. He’s never seen himself in wolf form before. His wolf has never been fussed about seeking out a mirror. He doesn’t blend into the alley as well as he would have hoped — certainly not as well as Sherlock would have, with his dark coat. He looks like he’s determined, on a mission. The video cuts out when he leaves the depot, looking less determined, more dejected. He opens the next video, working backwards in time.

Several hours later he’s finally approaching the time that Sherlock was kidnapped. He has a dreadfully stiff back, and has eaten most of a packet of biscuits.

A van pulls up to the depot. John glances at the timestamp: about right, allowing for their roundabout route. Two hooded men get out the cab of the van, go around to the back and open the doors. A subdued-looking Sherlock is led out by a third hooded man. These are definitely the same men. John has the same feeling that he recognises _something_ about them.

They lead Sherlock to a second vehicle. His hands are bound behind his back, but as soon as they’re away from the van Sherlock drops his subdued act. He kicks out to knock one man over, and head butts another, who stumbles back. But three men against one tied up are bad odds. The third man tackles Sherlock. The one who was knocked over gets up (with a slight limp, John notices) to punch Sherlock hard in the stomach, then in the mouth. John winces. He can almost feel the blows himself, but mostly he feels a strong desire to hunt these men down.

Sherlock spits. That was what John smelt last night. He’s bundled into another vehicle, a family car, incongruous in the depot full of vans, but commonplace on the streets of Greater London. John pauses the video and scribbles down the digits of the number plate that he can make out. Then the car leaves the depot and the limits of the surveillance.

He texts Mycroft with a few details and the partial number plate. Then he continues watching the remaining videos. These men are organised. They wouldn’t have chosen the depot without scouting it out first.

He’s right. Around two days before Sherlock was taken, on the Sunday night (or really, Monday morning), a man sneaks into the depot for a recon. John is 99% certain he’s one of the men who took Sherlock. Again there’s that feeling of recognition. He avoids the cameras, though, and he has a beanie pulled low over his forehead. He’s unidentifiable from what they have on CCTV. There’s nothing else useful that John can glean from this.

His phone pings with a text. For a mad second he thinks it might be Sherlock, but it’s just Mycroft, telling him that his team is working on tracing the second vehicle. John sits back with a huff. All the leads are out of his hands and there’s nothing more he can do.

He doesn’t want to be inactive, twiddling his thumbs, so he gets up and heads out. While he has nothing to do he may as well pick up his stuff from Harry’s.

  
  
***   
  


Harry opens the door and for a moment John thinks she might punch him.

“Where were you all night? You just disappeared!”

John doesn’t need this. “Sherlock’s been kidnapped. I came to get my things.”

“Shit!”

“Yeah.” He steps inside and starts packing a few things in his bag.

“And last night?” asks Harry.

“I was looking for him.”

“All night, by the looks of it. Have you slept?”

“No.” He shoulders his bag.

Harry bites her thumbnail. It’s her nervous habit. “You need to sleep,” she says.

“What I need to do is find Sherlock. I have to go.”

“Of course.” She rushes to open the door for him. “Just be careful.”

He doesn’t bother replying. He’s not a very careful person.

  
  
***   
  


He ends up walking most of the way back home from Harry’s, needing something active to do while he waits around for news. Eventually he gets on the Tube to finish the journey home.

Walking into the empty flat feels wrong. Sherlock should be here, making a racket, or concocting unpleasant smells in the kitchen, or barging into John’s room to cuddle him without an explanation.

God. As soon as Sherlock is back John is going to sort that situation out. They can’t carry on in this awkward middle ground indefinitely. He will shower Sherlock with all the love he wants to give him, and Sherlock can give back exactly as much or as little as he likes. That will work, surely?

He is so tied up in his thoughts that he doesn’t notice the piece of paper that’s been slipped under the door until he makes his way to the kitchen for a cup of tea. When he does see it, he stares at it, then stares at it some more, his sleep-deprived brain perplexed for a moment by how it even got there. Then he gets the gut feeling that this piece of paper is important, and abandons all thoughts of tea to pick it up.

It’s standard, plain A4 paper, folded in half. John unfolds in, stomach clenching, and reads the words printed on it:

**YOU TOOK ONE OF OURS**  
**SO WE TOOK ONE OF YOURS.**  
**OURS IS DEAD.**  
**YOURS WILL DIE TOO.**

His left hand convulsively clenches, creasing the corner of the paper. Sherlock isn’t dead, but these people will kill him unless John gets to them first. He’ll kill every one of them twice over if they dare harm Sherlock.

He calls Mycroft. The ten seconds that it takes him to pick up are the longest in John’s life.

“Dr. Watson.”

“Some bastard came to the flat earlier and put a note under the door.” He reads the note out.

There are a few seconds of silence from Mycroft. John feels his blood boiling. The silence stretches just slightly too long.

“Mycroft, I swear—”

“Get your gun, John. I have the note dropper on camera an hour ago, and you’re going to follow his route.”

Finally, some action. He grabs his gun from upstairs and shoves it in the back of his jeans. On the phone, Mycroft guides him out of the flat and along Baker Street.

“Try to look less like a soldier charging into battle, would you?” Mycroft says. “You’re shockingly conspicuous.” 

He attempts to relax, but he needs to be on guard. He _is_ a soldier going into battle, damn it.

Mycroft offers a few more directions. “Remember that we might lose him. They’ve been rather good at avoiding CCTV thus far.”

Following the man’s trail takes him on a very circular route, through crowded Central London streets, then looping back and away from the city centre. Twice, Mycroft loses sight of the man’s trail, but picks him up again a few minutes later. They’re heading for an area full of office blocks under construction. CCTV coverage is more patchy there. Mycroft guides him towards the rough area where the man disappears from all cameras.

Aware that he’s sticking out like a sore thumb, John swipes a hi-vis jacket and hard hat from the back of a pick-up truck. It will have to do for a disguise. 

It’s starting to get dark, and the few construction workers still about are bunking off early for their Friday night plans. John paces outside the skeleton of a building, still on the phone. Mycroft wants to send in a specialised team. But the second John knows which building Sherlock is in he’s going in.

Mycroft hangs up, telling John to wait for the specialised team and to call if there are any developments before then. John moves to the middle of a group of buildings, stepping silently, listening carefully. Almost all of the workers have gone home for the afternoon now. He hears the tinny notes of a radio floating towards him. Slowly he moves in the direction of the noise, pulling his gun out as he enters the skeleton of the building it’s in.

John pauses behind a concrete pillar. The sound of the radio is coming from the next room, but he can’t hear anything else. In one quick move he spins off the pillar and into the room, gun raised. Empty. Just some builders who forgot to turn their radio off. He heads back outside.

Right, think. If he had kidnapped someone and brought them here, where would he hide? He wouldn’t choose one of the buildings still under construction. Too many people coming in and out; too much chance of being found. A completed building, then, unoccupied until the rest of the site is completed. Sticking to the shadows, he moves towards the small cluster of finished buildings. There are four. One has signs in the ground floor windows indicating it’s a show office, so he discards that one. He carefully studies the others. Would it make more sense to hide downstairs, with easy access but a higher risk of discovery, or upstairs, unlikely to be spotted by prying eyes? Getting Sherlock up all those stairs would have been difficult, whether he was conscious or unconscious. A basement would have been ideal. Hidden, but accessible. Do these buildings have basements?

He picks one of the three buildings at random. The revolving doors are locked, but he manages to pry one open with the help of a crowbar left on the ground nearby, and slips inside. Okay. This will likely be a lobby. He doubts there’ll be direct access to the basement here, assuming there is one. Listening carefully for any other sign of life, he makes his way to the back of the building. In one corner, tucked away behind non-operational lifts, he finds a stairwell with, _yes!_ , stairs going down. He slips into the stairwell, letting the door fall gently shut behind him, and stands motionless, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. Then he creeps down.

The basement, through an empty doorway at the bottom of the stairs, is dark. No, not just dark, pitch black. It’s unlikely there’s anyone here. He listens carefully, to confirm his suspicions, then heads back up the stairs and out the building.

Building number two is laid out in exactly the same way. John makes his way stealthily down the stairwell. This basement isn’t as dark through the empty doorway. Something, somewhere, must be giving out light. He takes an almost silent step forward, but then has a better idea and retreats into the darkness under the stairs.

As quickly and quietly as possible, he strips and changes into wolf form. His wolf is delighted at being let out, having been tense and alert since John found the note. His packmate has been threatened. If these people dare make good on their threat, he’ll rip their throats out. More silently than he’s capable of in human form, John paces forwards to the doorway. He sniffs the air carefully. There _are_ people here, two… three… four in total. One is the other scent he picked up at the depot, one is… Sherlock! John’s tail gives a wag before he stills it. The other two he can’t identify — but wait. These aren’t ordinary people. All the people here are Weres, in human form, luckily, or they would have scented John by now. He pads back to the stairwell to consider his next move.

He’s stronger and faster as a wolf, but as a human, he can use his gun. Changing is a vulnerable process, but he’ll have to do it at some point; Sherlock is probably tied up, and John will need his fingers to release him. Right. He changes back, dresses, and quickly sends a text to Mycroft describing the location and situation.

Barefoot, he paces across the cold concrete and through the doorway into the basement. He doesn’t know if these men are armed. Presumably they are, but they could also change into wolf form at any point. A bite won’t affect him beyond the pain, now, but it’s not something he needs. His gun is at the ready. He moves towards the light at the end of the large rectangular basement.

Through the darkness he can see two men silhouetted against the light. They’re sitting at a fold-out table, making it hard for John to assess their size and strength. He edges closer to the wall, away from the pool of light. There’s a rustling noise farther off, beyond the table. A third man sitting apart has just turned a page of newspaper. Beyond him, barely perceptible in the darkness, huddled against a wall, Sherlock’s unmistakable silhouette. John’s on the wrong side, damn it!

Slowly, he moves away from the light and towards the wall on the opposite side. All his senses are on full alert. He’s sure that his footsteps must be audible, that his breathing must be loud and echoing, but no one moves until he’s three quarters of the way across the room. Then the man with the newspaper speaks up.

“Something’s wrong.”

John freezes. The men at the table look up.

“What is it?”

“Something’s just… off. It doesn’t feel right in here.”

Shit. These men are Weres; they’ll trust their instincts. Does he act now, while he still has a slight element of surprise? Their attention will be more focused on Sherlock now that they sense a threat. _Bollocks_. Guns blazing it is.

Hands steady, gun raised. John’s bullet slices through the third man’s newspaper. They all jump in surprise. Sherlock stirs and makes a muffled, groggy sound. Then the men are on their feet, at least two guns out, all shouting at once. Under the cover of their noise John dashes away from where he was standing, away from Sherlock. He doesn’t want to put him in the line of fire.

One man is heading for the light. He won’t have the cover of darkness for much longer. He shoots at the newspaper man, closest to Sherlock and therefore the biggest threat. A bullet to his thigh. He goes down and his cry of pain echoes through the basement. There’s the sound of clothes ripping. Shit! One of the men at the table changes, fast, blurring before John’s eyes. John doesn’t have time to get him at his most vulnerable. He’s bounding at John, snarling. His night vision will be perfect now. _Fuck_. He pulls the trigger. The wolf collapses with a yelp, right in front of him. Dead. Just one left. The last man is making for Sherlock. John runs. The man’s foot catches on a trailing wire, dragging the light over and plunging them into darkness. John freezes, listening hard, blood pounding in his ears. His foot skitters against a gun, the newspaper man’s, and he kicks it far away into the depths of the basement.

“I have Sherlock here. I have a gun against his head,” a voice comes to him through the darkness.

John raises his gun in its direction. “Let him go or you will regret it,” he says, voice steely. “I will hunt you down and kill you and every person you care about.”

“You’ve already killed people I care about!” the man shouts, voice cracking. “You just killed Daniel, and you shot Ste, and you killed Tom!”

Newspaper man — Ste — groans. John hears Sherlock whimper. He sounds muffled, gagged. Tom? Who’s Tom? Who has he killed called— 

Oh, Christ. Thomas Finchley. The Were who turned Sherlock. Who John shot straight between the eyes without hesitation. This is his _pack_. John’s killed a pack member, two pack members now. _God, no_. 

“Sherlock,” he calls out, “are you okay?”

Sherlock makes a muffled, desperate sound.

“Shut up!”

John hears a dull thud and a low, pained moan. Then there’s the sharp retort of a gun and for a split second he’s frozen — _no no no no no_ — but then the bullet whistles past him, far off to his side, into the darkness. John’s heart is in his throat.

Sherlock starts screaming through his gag, frantic.

“I’m okay, Sherlock, he missed,” John says. He wishes he could feel as calm as he sounds. Goddammit, he needs to _see_ , but his eyes can’t adjust to utter blackness. How the fuck is he going to get Sherlock out of this unharmed?

“I won’t miss next time!” the man shouts. He’s losing it. “I’ll kill you — both of you. You deserve to suffer after what you did to my pack!”

Did John hear noise upstairs? He needs to see Sherlock, see if he heard it too, just _see_ him, if he’s alright, to just look at him and reassure him. He can’t lose him, not now. His wolf whines. What the fuck can he say?

“Listen, what’s your name?” John asks. Calm, stay calm.

There’s a long pause.

“Marco,” the man says eventually.

John is sure he heard a scuffle in the stairwell. He prays Marco didn’t hear it too.

“Okay, Marco. I’m John. I know how you feel. I’ve lost friends too.” Calm down, please calm down.

“And packmates? Have you ever lost a packmate? Do you know how that feels?”

John’s stomach clenches. He’s only just _got_ his packmate. 

“I—”

“I’ll shoot him. Then you’ll know! Then you’ll know my— my pain, and then I’ll kill you too.”

“No, Marco, don’t—”

Then there’s just noise. Shouts, heavy boots, blinding torch beams. The second they light Marco and Sherlock up, John shoots, praying to everything that Marco’s finger won’t twitch on the trigger of the gun held to Sherlock’s head. There’s no second shot. John runs forward, shouting orders. 

“Light! I need light here!”

Sherlock is shaking, eyes crazed, when John reaches him and lights are turned on them.

“Sherlock! I’ve got you, it’s okay, you’re safe now.”

Behind them Mycroft’s men are dealing with the wounded men. John takes Sherlock’s gag off. 

“John.” His voice is hoarse, scratchy with disuse.

John is patting him down. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

“No, just bruised.”

“Oh, thank God.”

All the emotions that he’s been pushing back come flooding up and he feels _everything_ for Sherlock. His head swims with it, his stomach flips, and then before he can stop himself his lips are on Sherlock’s and he’s holding hard onto Sherlock’s arms. Sherlock’s small noise of surprise is muffled between them. He leans in slightly just as John pulls away. They stare at each other for a few seconds.

John looks away first. “Let’s get you untied and out of here,” he says.

Sherlock’s hands are bound behind his back. His ankles are tied, too. The knots are good, and John has to borrow a knife to get through them. He eases Sherlock up. His legs are weak after sitting for so long. John helps him upstairs and through the lobby. Outside, there’s a private ambulance waiting. John demands to check Sherlock over himself, but instead he’s sat down and given a shock blanket. He reaches for Sherlock’s hand and squeezes it gently.

Sherlock looks from their joined hands up at him, confusion evident. “John?”

“I—” John starts, then breaks off, looking at the paramedics bustling around them. Emotional declarations are hard enough without an audience.

“John.” Sherlock tugs on his hand, pulling John in until they’re forehead to forehead. “You said… you said ‘I don’t want what you want’, but then you kissed me. I don’t understand.”

He frowns at Sherlock, trying to understand. 

“You wanted to be kissed?” he asks.

“Yes,” Sherlock breathes. “But you just want to comfort me. You’re not gay.”

John’s frown deepens. Is Sherlock… saying that he wants more?

“I don’t just… I mean, I _do_ want to comfort you, but… Do you— Are you saying—”

“John,” Sherlock says. He seems almost nervous. “Will you kiss me again?”

John slides the hand that isn’t still linked with Sherlock’s around the back of his neck, and draws him all the way in. Their lips meet again, and this time Sherlock isn’t too surprised to kiss back. His lips part slightly, moulding around John’s, his hand curls into John’s coat. John slides his hand up into Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock makes a soft noise that he would love to hear again and again, and—

The paramedic clears his throat. “Gentlemen, if you’re quite done, I can check you over and let you go home.”

Regretfully, he pulls away from Sherlock’s beautiful lips, but keeps hold of his hand. The paramedics check them over, efficiently, but not quickly enough. He’s practically bouncing in his seat, eager to get Sherlock home, kiss the gorgeous, ridiculous man until he can’t breathe, and then take him to bed. Finally, they’re pronounced well, excepting bruising, and mild dehydration for Sherlock, and shown to one of Mycroft’s many sleek black cars. The driver already knows where they’re headed. 

John slides across the seats, closer to Sherlock. His hand cups Sherlock’s cheek, his thumb strokes gently over a bruise.

“I can’t believe… We are on the same page, aren’t we? You want this?”

Sherlock’s face is open and honest. “I want to hold you and kiss you. I want to finish what we started in the shower and I want that every day. I don’t want us to be just friends.”

John shivers at the mention of the shower. “I think we stopped being just friends a while ago, only I couldn’t admit it to myself. And I would never have thought that _you_ …”

Sherlock’s voice is quiet. “Only for you, John.”

John thinks his heart might just about burst then. He’s still running on his adrenaline high. His wolf is running circles in his head, joyful at being reunited with its packmate, its partner.

Sherlock shifts, uncomfortable, and scratches at his chin. “I need to shower, shave…”

“We’re almost home,” John says, and leans in to kiss him again.

God, he’ll never get bored of this. Sherlock kisses him with so much need. His arm wraps around John to pull him closer, his hand roams over John’s chest, almost hesitantly, as if he’s not sure where he’s allowed to touch. John rests a hand on Sherlock’s knee and slowly slides it up his thigh. Sherlock’s muscles tense under his hand and he makes a quiet noise into John’s mouth. He is just licking along Sherlock’s beautiful, full lower lip when the car draws to a stop.

John drags himself away from Sherlock, equally annoyed at the disturbance and excited that he can now get Sherlock upstairs and have his way with him. His cock is already semi-interested just from the snogging, and from the tightness of Sherlock’s trousers, his is too.

Sticking close to each other, hands on back and arms, they stumble into 221 and upstairs to the flat. As soon as the door is closed John crowds Sherlock up against it, leaning up to kiss him again. His blood is thrumming through his veins. He nips at Sherlock’s bottom lip and steps in closer, pressing their bodies flush together, rocks his hips against Sherlock’s, but the angle isn’t quite good enough for both of them.

“Mm, need… Need to be horizontal,” he murmurs against Sherlock’s lips, hands cupping his cheeks and stroking into his hair.

“I need to shower first,” Sherlock replies, but makes no effort to move, sliding his hands slowly up and down John’s back.

He shivers and presses in even closer to Sherlock. “Yes, you should,” he attempts to say, but his words are lost when Sherlock bends his knees and brings their cocks into alignment and another round of enthusiastic snogging begins, this time with added frotting.

Long minutes later then break apart to breathe, hips still slowly pushing against each other. Pleasure is coiling low and slow in John’s belly.

“Shower,” he says, panting slightly. “You said you’d shower.” He steps away from Sherlock, leans in to kiss him briefly, then steps away again. 

Sherlock is beautiful, cheeks flushed pink, lips parted and kiss-swollen. His cock is straining against his trousers. God, he’s a gorgeous sight, and they haven’t even made it out of their coats and shoes yet.

“John,” Sherlock says, leaning against the door for support, “if you keep looking at me like that I’ll never make it to the shower.”

John huffs a laugh and averts his eyes. “Sorry.”

He hears Sherlock take a deep, steadying breath, then feels him brush past him. “Wait for me in my room,” he says. 

John waits until he hears the shower turn on, then strips off his coat and shoes and goes through to Sherlock’s room. He’s all energy, some of it nervous, anticipatory. He tries to sit on the bed, but has to get up and pace. He’s strung out. He can hardly believe that he got Sherlock back home mostly uninjured, let alone that they’ve _kissed_ , and now they’re going to…

Then, as if someone’s flicked a switch, John’s energy vanishes. He flops down onto the bed. His body is rudely reminding him that he’s not slept for too many hours, and he’s not been eating enough, and the stressful situation is over, so it’s time to rest now, thank you very much. Vaguely he registers the shower turning off, and the sounds of Sherlock brushing his teeth and shaving. Damn it, he doesn’t want to disappoint him, but…

Sherlock enters the bedroom, hair damp and towel-ruffled, and looks at John, _deduces_ him. John waits for the slew of words but he’s surprised.

“Oh, thank God,” Sherlock breathes, then flops on the bed next to John.

“What?”

“You’re exhausted. You haven’t slept since… Wednesday night. It is Friday, isn’t it? Or is it Saturday now?” Sherlock cranes his head to peer at the clock. “Anyway. You’re too tired to, uh, continue previous activities, which is perfect, because I am too. Which isn’t to say that I don’t want to continue them. I would. Don’t take this as—”

John silences him with a finger over his lips. “Sherlock. Too many words. Let’s just sleep, yeah? The rest can wait until morning.”

Sherlock nods, John’s finger still on his lips. John replaces it briefly with his own lips, then gets up to go to the bathroom and get ready for bed.

When he returns, stripping off layers of clothes as he moves towards the bed, Sherlock is already curled up, facing the door. John slides into bed in his pants and curls around Sherlock’s back. It feels familiar, comforting. They did this before, at the cottage. He wraps an arm around Sherlock’s waist and Sherlock lets out a deep sigh.

“I wasn’t even sure if you’d come and find me,” he says. “And I certainly didn’t think we’d end up like this.”

John yawns. “Of course I’d come and find you. Why not?”

“The conversation we’d had. I didn’t know if you’d stay after that. Too awkward. And when we got back just now I saw your note in the kitchen.”

It feels like he wrote that note a million years ago.

“I needed space to think. Harry helped, actually.”

“Good,” Sherlock says. “I’ll send her a thank you card.”

The bed is warm. Sherlock smells of his posh shampoo. But he’s still holding himself a little tense. John slips his hand under Sherlock’s top and draws gentle patterns on his waist. Sherlock sighs again, relaxing under John’s ministrations. He’s so responsive. John can’t wait until tomorrow morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ......and the readers can't wait until the next chapter :)


	13. 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your patience will be well rewarded with this chapter I hope :)  
> It's the beginning of the end, and it's time to make good on all those sex and fluff tags! (with just a teeny bit of angst to answer some questions)

Sherlock wakes slowly, feeling warm and safe, something he hasn’t felt at all for the past few days. For a few moments he keeps his eyes closed and basks in it. His wolf, who has been in a state of nervous agitation since he was taken, is sprawled on its back, pleased to be home with its packmate.

John. They’ve switched places during the night. Now Sherlock is the one curled around John’s back, nose in his hair, a hand on his belly. He, too, is awake, judging by his breathing. John wiggles his hips, just so, and Sherlock gasps, eyes flying open.

“Good morning,” John says. He can hear the laugh in his voice. He loves cheeky, playful John.

“Good morning indeed,” he replies, voice coming out deeper than usual.

He pushes his hips forwards. His cock, already interested when he woke up, is hardening. Already it feels good. He wants John to feel it too. He slides his hand down from John’s belly and rests it over his clothed cock. John hums his approval and starts slowly rocking his hips forwards into Sherlock’s hand, backwards against his cock. Sherlock closes his eyes again, enjoying the slow, gentle push and pull. After a few more moments he shuffles a little so that he can mouth at the side of John’s neck. He finds a particularly sensitive spot just under his ear that makes John moan breathily. He wants to hear more of that. He focuses on that spot, accompanies it with a squeeze of John’s cock.

It works beautifully. John’s hand, which has wandered to Sherlock’s hair to hold his mouth in place, suddenly vanishes under the covers to push his pants down. He wriggles to work them off his legs and Sherlock moans as John’s arse — his naked arse — rubs deliciously against his cock. John, completely naked in his bed. Unbelievable. Unbelievably good.

“You too,” John says, breathy, sounding how he sounds after they chase criminals.

His hand finds Sherlock’s hip, tugs at his pyjama bottoms. Sherlock shoves them down and off, making John whine when Sherlock’s hand leaves his dick. He sucks at John’s sensitive neck again, and is rewarded by John’s arse pressing back against his cock.

“Do you have any lube?” John asks.

Sherlock stills. “John, I— I don’t think…”

“Not for anal, you numpty.”

“Second drawer.”

He pulls away from him then, allowing Sherlock to gather his scattered thoughts a little. Mostly he just wants John. Badly. He needs to feel more of John. He pulls his pyjama top off. John returns to the curve of Sherlock’s body, warming lube in his hand.

“What— How are we…?” God, he can’t get his words straight with John’s naked body wriggling against his like that.

“Shuffle down a bit.”

John spreads the lube between his thighs, lifts a leg slightly, reaches back to urge Sherlock’s hips forwards. He closes his thighs around Sherlock’s cock. Sherlock gasps, shifts his hips a bit, moans.

“John, you are a genius.”

John laughs. “Don’t hear that one often.” He rests a hand on Sherlock’s thigh. “Come on, love. Move.”

Sherlock wraps his arm around John again, running his fingers over his chest as he starts thrusting slowly between his thighs. John arches into his touch, his hand squeezing Sherlock’s thigh when Sherlock brushes a finger over a nipple. Sherlock runs curious fingers along the edges of John’s scar. This friction, this wet slide on his cock feels incredible, he feels like he could lose himself in the sensations, so much stronger than when he’s touching himself. His cock rubs against John’s balls with each thrust. 

John groans. “Sherlock, would you just touch me already?”

Yes. Sherlock wants John to feel just as good as he does. He runs his hand down John’s stomach until it bumps against John’s dick, standing upright against his belly, straining towards Sherlock’s touch. Sherlock wraps his left hand around John’s cock, a little awkwardly. There’s a bead of moisture at the tip and Sherlock runs his thumb around the head of John’s cock, slides the wetness around. John moans and squeezes his thighs tighter around Sherlock’s dick.

They settle into an easy, undulating rhythm. Sherlock can feel it building inside him, coiling in his belly, making his legs tingle. He needs to hear John moan again, needs to make him feel good. He licks a stripe up John’s neck, tastes the tang of dried sweat there, kisses and sucks on his sensitive spot. John shivers. Sherlock can feel John’s balls drawing up. He’s close too.

John squeezes his thighs repeatedly around Sherlock’s cock. Sherlock is finding it increasingly difficult to concentrate on John’s neck, and he _never_ finds it difficult to concentrate on the task at hand. His hips jerk forwards.

“John, I—” he chokes out.

“That’s it,” John pants.

The coils in Sherlock’s belly tighten. He’s going to explode any second now. John’s hand squeezes Sherlock’s thigh and suddenly Sherlock is lost, coming hard, thrusting fast between John’s thighs. His moan is long and low and vibrates against the skin of John’s neck. As he slowly comes down, feeling heavy and warm, John’s hand wraps around his on his cock, encouraging him to stroke faster. He pants Sherlock’s name, breathless and needy. Sherlock lifts up on one elbow, watches as John comes apart in his hand, arching back into Sherlock’s body, moaning his pleasure.

Together their hands on John’s cock slow and still. He lets go and flops back down onto the bed. His brain is quiet and fuzzy, his wolf content, the stress and tension of the past few days gone. John shuffles, turns over, and insinuates himself in Sherlock’s embrace. He nuzzles at Sherlock’s chest, neck, pushes himself up the bed on stretched toes and kisses Sherlock, warm and unhurried. Sherlock feels himself melting as he returns the kiss without finesse, soft and sated. He hums his satisfaction.

John pulls away to snuggle up, and Sherlock makes a noise of protest.

“More kisses,” he says.

John laughs softly and leans up to kiss him again. It’s incredible. How has he been missing out on this all this time?

“I’m sticky,” John says. “Do you want to take a shower with me?”

His mind flicks back to their shower together at the cottage and his cock twitches just a little against John’s leg.

John grins. “Come on then.”

  
  
***  
  


Sherlock lies on the sofa later, hands steepled, eyes closed, processing. He’s already decided that he likes kissing a lot. He’s decided that he likes wet, naked kissing in the shower even more. As long as it’s with John, that is. He knows a lot of people, but he can’t think of anyone he’d want to do this with except John. And sex with John feels so much better than when he gets off by himself; the pleasure so much more sharp and focused, everything more electric. His fantasies didn’t even come close. He wants more of this every day, multiple times a day, even. Given John’s reputation, Sherlock thinks he’ll be willing.

Suddenly there’s a warm presence around him, lips pressed gently against his.

“Too much thinking,” John says.

Sherlock smiles and opens his eyes.

“I want to tell you something,” John says. “It’s not easy, so please don’t interrupt me.”

Sherlock nods and stretches up to kiss John again. He’s almost certain that he knows what John wants to tell him. John sits on the floor and leans back against the sofa, addressing the room, but not Sherlock directly. Sherlock rolls onto his side. This way he can see the side of John’s face, can reach out to touch him.

“I know you’re curious about how I was bitten. How much have you figured out?”

“It was in Afghanistan,” Sherlock replies. “Around the time you were shot, possibly at the same time. Your first proper change was difficult. I assume you were still recovering. You implied that your body forced the first change.”

John nods. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s a basic summary.” He’s silent for a few moments. “We were on patrol. There are quite a few packs of Weres hiding out in the desert or the mountains. They’re excluded from society, there, so they band together and live as outcasts. We heard them at night a lot. Or maybe we heard real wolves. I don’t know.” He trails off, lost in thought.

“You were on patrol,” Sherlock prompts.

“Yeah,” John says. “It was about a week and a half after the full moon. I didn’t know that until later, though. It was an ambush. I can’t think why; territorial instinct, maybe, or they’d been bought out by the insurgents. But we were attacked. They had it planned. The wolves came at us, and then in the confusion we were shot at. Picked off.”

The story is hard to tell. It’s hurting John. Sherlock wants to pull him up into his arms, but he knows that if he interrupts now, John might not be able to continue. He forces himself to stay still and silent. Just listen.

“There were four wolves, or maybe five. They came at us out of nowhere, too quickly to count. They took down two men straight away. The wolves bit them, and the snipers shot them while they were changing and vulnerable. I think we shot two of the wolves. Another one bit me and the bullet got me as I fell. If I’d fallen a different way it would’ve gone straight through my head or my neck.”

Sherlock can’t help it then. He reaches out and rests a hand on John’s shoulder, grounds him in the here and now, in Baker Street. Alive. If John had died out in Afghanistan, Sherlock would never have met him. He can’t imagine a life without John now.

John moves, crawls up onto the sofa and lies over Sherlock. Sherlock wraps his arms around him, feels the tension in his body. He slowly rubs his hands over John’s back. John gradually, minutely relaxes, until Sherlock’s hands have eased the pains of the past enough for him to continue. He murmurs against Sherlock’s neck.

“My injury wasn’t easy to heal. It was jostled too much when I was moved, and the surgeon cared more about efficiency than neatness. I understand, of course, but— Well. It got infected. I was weak, and out of it. I didn’t know what was happening to me. I hurt all over. I had this pounding headache that the painkillers wouldn’t touch. I felt foggy. My mind felt wrong. I thought it was the pain and the infection, and all the drugs I was on. My shoulder was burning, my mind was burning. Everyone was so busy that they didn’t think about the circumstances of my attack, or how long it had been.

“They put my agitation after two weeks down to the infection. They thought it was because I was feverish. When the full moon came, I wasn’t connected with my wolf, because half the time I’d been off my face on painkillers. I didn’t even know that I had a wolf in me to connect with. No one had told me. My memories were hazy. I thought maybe I’d imagined it. I didn’t know to change, so my wolf forced it. It— A forced change is fucking painful, Sherlock, don’t let it happen to you.”

Sherlock nuzzles at John’s hair, soothes him.

“My wolf had complete control. I could only watch. It was hurt and confused, but mostly angry. It ripped apart the bedsheets and destroyed the room, wasted all the supplies in there. A nurse somehow got me locked in, thank God. I’m sure that if she hadn’t, I would’ve gone on a rampage. They called in some tranquilisers, shot me down.

“I took a long time to change back. My wolf didn’t feel it had been out enough. They had to put me under a second time in the same night. I was out of it the next day. Healing better, thanks to my wolf, but weak and still not in control. I couldn’t really process what was happening to me. That evening they restrained me, but a wolf is a different shape to a human. The restraints tugged painfully on my limbs before I managed to get loose, and then they had to tranq me again. They kept me under for the next three days, in both forms. I felt so ill. That was my first change.”

“John.”

Sherlock strokes his hands through John’s hair, cups his face, brings it up to pepper it with kisses.

“John.”

He can’t find any other words. His heart is aching. John surrenders to his attentions, lets himself be held and kissed and comforted. Eventually the remaining tension in his body leaches away, and the pain in his eyes clears.

“The past is over,” John says. “Nothing will be worse than that now. I’m here with you. My packmate. I never thought I’d have one.”

Sherlock smiles. A smile just for John. “My packmate.”


	14. 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 13 was lovely, but only short, so here is some more loveliness in a quick update.  
> Just the epilogue to go after this chapter :)

Three weeks pass. There are some cases, just small ones, just enough to stave off Sherlock’s boredom. Mycroft visits to check on Sherlock after the kidnapping, and leaves smiling slightly to himself after seeing the two of them together. Most of the time they spend curled up together in Sherlock’s bed. He’s never laughed so much. It’s lovely. Cases are stimulating, and John enjoys them too, but Sherlock’s bedroom is best, a bubble around them separating them from the outside world, a warm cocoon where they can just be Sherlock and John, John and Sherlock. 

And then there’s kissing. So much kissing that he sometimes thinks he’ll burst just from the kissing, just from what he’s feeling. Then John takes it further, pushes him up to that delicious edge with his hands, his fingers, his mouth, until he tumbles over and breaks apart. John is always there to pull him back together. Sherlock does the same for John, discovers his sensitive spots, his ticklish spots, touches him everywhere, learns what he likes. Now that he is allowed to touch John as much as he wants, is encouraged to even, he can’t stop. He wants to know everything about John’s body. He loves the noises he makes. The knowledge that it is _him_ doing this to John, bringing him pleasure, is heady.

Three weeks fly by. They learn each other. Sherlock learns just how much John likes his lips, learns how to put them to good use around John’s cock. John learns how to overwhelm Sherlock, when to back off and slow it down. It’s largely unchartered territory for Sherlock, but here, exploring it with John, he feels safe.

Finally their next change approaches. His wolf’s increased activity is making him feel agitated, torn between staying in bed with John and going out to jog along London’s cold, winter streets. John lets him go with good humour. He’s hiding something, Sherlock can tell, but he’s happy about it, so Sherlock doesn’t press. A Christmas present, maybe. John always tries his hardest to surprise Sherlock at Christmas.

Arriving back from a run one evening, Sherlock jumps in the shower to rinse off the sweat and warm his wind-chilled skin. After a few minutes, he hears the bathroom door open and he’s joined by a beautifully naked John. He pulls him into his arms, under the spray.

“Wolf quieter now?” John asks. His eyes flick down to Sherlock’s lips. His hands roam over his back.

“Much,” Sherlock replies, pressing his lips to John’s.

John kisses back, then ruins the kiss by grinning. “Your nose is cold,” he murmurs. He rises on tiptoes to kiss the nose in question.

Sherlock slides his hands down John’s back to his arse and pulls him flush against him. Wet, naked John Watson never fails to make him _want_. John’s muscles twitch under his hands.

“Your hands are cold, too,” John says. “Let me fix that.”

He stares up at Sherlock. Sherlock couldn’t look away if he tried. John’s hand drifts behind him, plucks one of Sherlock’s away from his arse, raises it to his mouth. He slides his warm mouth down over two of Sherlock’s fingers. A groan escapes Sherlock. It’s the cottage again, their first shower together, except this time, John won’t pull away. His cock hardens between them as John’s tongue winds between his fingers.

“John,” he says brokenly, as John pulls up to Sherlock’s fingernails, then slides his mouth back down. Their hips work together, slowly rubbing their cocks against each other.

“Have I ever told you what lovely hands you have?” John asks when he finally pulls off completely.

“You may have moaned it a few times,” he breathes. John’s praise in bed (or in the shower) is everything he needs. He craves it.

“Speaking of moaning…” John says, and pushes him back against the wall, sinks to his knees and sinks his mouth around Sherlock’s cock.

Sherlock closes his eyes, seeing sparks, scrabbles at the tiles behind him. John sucks long and slow, drawing moans from him. His hands stroke over his thighs, slide between his legs to tug gently at his balls. This is what he’d imagined after the cottage shower, but the reality is so much more intense. John’s mouth should be illegal. He already knows how to work Sherlock just so. It’s not long before Sherlock’s hips are thrusting minutely, steadied by John’s hands, and his moans are getting louder. His hands fly to John’s hair and tug.

“John—” he manages, and then he’s coming, head tipped back and mouth open in a silent cry, legs trembling.

John swallows around him and gently pulls off, his strong hands holding Sherlock up against the wall.

“I love it when I make your legs weak,” he grins, standing up.

He often looks smug after making Sherlock come. Sherlock thinks smug John is beautiful and dominant and sexy as hell.

John switches off the water, which is now running lukewarm. He gets them out of the shower and gently towels Sherlock off as Sherlock floats blissfully in his post-orgasm glow. John dries himself off cursorily and stretches up to kiss him deeply.

“Sherlock…” Another kiss. “Take me to bed.”

In short moments they’re lying in bed, snogging. Sherlock’s hands slide over John’s body, John’s cock pushes insistently against Sherlock’s belly. He breaks from John’s lips and kisses down his neck.

“What you just did,” he says between kisses, “at the cottage, after you left me in the shower, I imagined that you didn’t stop. That you did that to me instead.”

He sucks on John’s sensitive spot and wraps a hand around his cock. John gasps and pushes into his hand.

“You… you got off after that?”

His hands are in Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock looks at him, decides whether he wants it fast or slow today. He starts stroking John’s cock. Slow it is.

“Yes. I thought about you and I ‘got off’.” 

“Christ, I didn’t…” Whatever John was going to say is bitten off by a soft moan.

“You turned me on and you left me hanging,” Sherlock says. He can see what his voice is doing for John.

“God, I wish I hadn’t.” John’s voice is breathy. “We could have had so much more sex by now.”

Sherlock chuckles and kisses him again. His hand still works slowly on John’s cock. “Do you ever think about anything but sex?” he asks against John’s lips.

John opens his eyes. His pupils are dilated, eyes lidded. Sherlock has made him like this.

“You’re irresistible,” John says. “I’ve wanted you for so long.”

“I’m all yours now,” he says, and John has to close his eyes, rest his forehead against Sherlock’s, and moan his name.

He’s getting closer. Sherlock can feel his muscles gradually tensing. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of bringing John to orgasm, cataloguing his little reactions, hearing his moans. John clutches at him. He speeds his hand up. John leans in, kisses him desperately, messily. His hips jerk once, twice, then he goes tense and still and wetness blooms over Sherlock’s hand. John’s moan is muffled between their mouths.

John flops onto his back, panting. Sherlock cleans him up with a few tissues, then curls around him. He’s warm, happy, pliable. This is one of Sherlock’s favourite versions of John. He snuggles into him with a smile.

“The cottage,” John says.

“Mmm.”

“We didn’t finish well there, but it was good to start with, wasn’t it?”

He nods, making John giggle as his damp curls tickle him.

“Good. Because I booked it for the next few days for our change.”

Sherlock’s head snaps up. “John! You are a genius!”

He kisses him firmly, then leaps out of bed, too excited to stay still. The cottage! Space to run free, just the two of them. This is an excellent idea, so much better than a change in London. The secret cave. The bees. He can’t wait.

John watches him pace excitedly, grinning.

“I love it when you call me a genius,” he says. “Now get back here and kiss me again.”

Obviously, Sherlock doesn’t refuse.

  
  
***  
  


With no need to avoid Mycroft this time, they take the train down to Sussex, which Sherlock finds he infinitely prefers, despite the increased chance of screaming children and dimwitted members of the public. But the small, uncomfortable seats of the train allow him to sit closer to John, and John doesn’t mind when Sherlock rests his head on John’s shoulder and drifts into his mind palace to play with his energetic wolf. John even kisses Sherlock’s curls to bring him back when they arrive.

They walk along the coast path to the cottage, pausing to pick up some food in town. They don’t have much luggage, just a few changes of clothes each (they plan to spend a lot of their time naked or in wolf form) and Sherlock’s violin. The owner is pleased to see them back, says something about how they must’ve sorted out their little tiff from last time. Sherlock ignores her and takes their things upstairs. John joins him once the owner has left, slides his arms around Sherlock’s waist from behind, stretches up to kiss his neck.

“It’s a bit chilly in here,” he says. “Why don’t you get a fire going, Mr. Firestarter?”

Sherlock smiles and turns around in John’s arms to kiss him properly before pulling away.

“Let’s go out earlier tonight,” John says downstairs, as Sherlock pokes the fire into life. “It’ll be darker sooner. Are you okay with staying out a bit longer?”

He considers. He feels much more settled with his wolf now.

“With all this space? Yes. But on one condition.”

“What’s that?”

“We both go to sleep in wolf form.” He stands up from the fire and moves to stretch out on the sofa.

John grins. “Ah. You’re just trying to get me naked again.”

Sherlock pulls a mock-affronted face and gasps. “John Watson, how dare you accuse me of such a thing.”

John giggles and comes over to straddle him on the sofa. “Yes, how dare I?” he says, then leans over to kiss him, and before they know it they’ve lost a good hour to snogging on the sofa.

Eventually John pulls away. The room has darkened with the setting sun, now lit only by the orange flicker of the fire. Sherlock reaches out to brush the edges of John’s hair, glowing golden. John smiles and turns his head to kiss his hand.

“Your stomach is rumbling,” he says. “And mine, too. I know it’s early, but how about I make us some dinner, and then we go out?”

Sherlock nods and sits up for one last gentle kiss.

As John moves about in the kitchen making their early dinner, he fetches his violin from upstairs, along with the sheet music for his composition. He was thinking about it on the way down in the train. He just needs to add the final few notes and it’ll be complete. Then he’ll play it to John, ever his best and most attentive audience. He plays through a few classical pieces, to warm up.

“It’ll be ready in ten,” John says, joining him in the living room. “Pasta’s just boiling.”

Ten minutes will be just right. “Excellent. John, sit. I have something to play for you.”

John sits in the armchair that Sherlock guides him to.

“Is this the piece you were composing?”

“Yes,” he says, and raises his violin and bow.

The piece runs chronologically. It begins with the first cottage section, the one that John heard before, long, low, and comforting. Then comes the first change. Gradually the cottage theme morphs, becoming something more complex, and then suddenly it’s completely different. This is Sherlock’s music at its most violently emotional, confused, uncontrolled, lost…

Then things tighten up. Here is a version of himself with complete control over his music. It’s sharp, no frills, not leaving space for any sort of emotion. The control lessens gradually, moment by moment, as they go back to London. But there’s an underlying sadness in the music now. It’s what he wanted, but thought he couldn’t have. There’s a spike of violence, the sadness increases, then the music becomes claustrophobic, dangerous. This is when he was kidnapped. The energy increases, the tempo increases: John to the rescue. Then the music soars, all trace of sadness gone. John kissing him. The soaring music gradually settles, diminuendo, morphs back into the cottage theme and ends. This is where they are now.

Sherlock opens eyes he doesn’t remember closing. He lowers his violin and bow, looks to John and blinks in surprise. In the light of the fire John’s eyes are wet and glistening.

“Sherlock,” he says. His voice cracks.

“I didn’t think it was that bad,” he replies.

John laughs, even though it was an awful joke, not deserving laughter.

“Put your violin down,” John says, standing up.

He hastily puts his violin and bow back into their case. His arms need to be full of John right now, and it looks as if John agrees. They step into each other. His arms go around John’s shoulders, John’s arm winding around Sherlock’s waist, his other hand reaching up to cup Sherlock’s face gently. His eyes are clear, now, but the emotion is still apparent on his face.

“That was…” he struggles for a suitable word and then resolves the struggle by surging up to kiss Sherlock deeply.

Sherlock can almost taste the emotion in his mouth, on his lips. John’s hand buries itself in Sherlock’s hair and they clutch at each other, kissing like they’ll never come up for air. It’s incredible, how much simply kissing John makes him _feel_. He tries to push closer, deeper, but they’re interrupted by the loud, angry hiss of a pan boiling over in the kitchen.

“Shit!” John curses, and runs to the kitchen.

Sherlock is left, steadfastly denying to himself that he has a soppy grin plastered across his face. He doesn’t do soppy. (Maybe he does, a bit, when it comes to John.)

As they eat, he curiously finds himself looking forward to the change, and not for any ulterior motive. Quite simply he wants to change, wants the private, open space here to run around and play with John, his friend, packmate, lover.

“John.”

“Mmm?” John has pasta sauce on his chin. It’s adorable. He wants to lick it off.

“I want to change. I’m looking forward to it.”

John swallows his mouthful and smiles. “Good. You got there a lot quicker than me.”

“Longer legs,” Sherlock quips. “But your situation was worse. Shot, invalided, in London, alone. Mine was alright. I had you.”

It sounds so simple and insignificant, put like that. Without John, he would still have managed, would have found out the necessary information on his own, escaped Mycroft’s meddling on his own. But with John, everything has been smoother. Easier to accept. John has soothed his headaches and explained everything to him and simply _been there_. Always at Sherlock’s side. 

He looks up at John. He wants to thank him, but words won’t adequately express what he means. His eyes slide to his violin in its case. He’ll write another piece just for John, just for the two of them.

“You’re welcome,” John says, because, as always, he is the one person who understands Sherlock best in this world.

After a moment of lingering, John gets up to clear their dishes. In unspoken agreement, he begins to prepare their breakfast feast as Sherlock banks the fire, turns the lights off, ensures their bedroom door is open. They’re in the front bedroom on the sea side, slightly larger, and with a much better view. Sherlock looks out over the sea, which is mostly a dark smudge, the horizon lit by the twinkling lights of a large cargo ship.

“Ready?” John asks when Sherlock comes back downstairs.

He nods. Stripping in front of each other is embarrassment-free now, and he has full rein to rake his eyes over John’s strong body, his muscles gleaming in the dying glow of the fire. John does the same. Sherlock has gained a little weight, from the mountains of food his body needs after a change. John, with his doctor hat on, has said it’s healthy weight, and admittedly Sherlock does feel stronger, so he can’t complain. He doesn’t complain about John’s very tactile approval of his healthier body, either.

John abruptly spins around, every line of his body simultaneously drawing towards and pulling away from Sherlock. Sherlock smirks. This is John’s body saying _I really want to jump you right now but we’re meant to be going out so I have to physically stop myself from looking at you_. He watches John’s body shimmer, ripple, then morph into wolf form, then changes himself. It surprises him just how much easier this is when it’s something he wants to do rather than something he has to do. He slips back, and lets his wolf take control.

Together they step outside. The open air is good, cold. The wind chills his nose, but he has a warm fur coat between him and the world. They look around, checking over their territory. Sussex. Open air, open land. Private land. Uninterrupted play. Suddenly the space between them is crackling with excitement. They both dash off up the hill at the same time, challenging their strength and agility. At the top Sherlock pounces on John, and they go tumbling back down together in a play-fighting ball. 

They run until their crackling excitement has been expended a little. Time for serious things. They hunt. Moving silently comes almost entirely naturally. His human side is intrigued by the extent of his instincts’ range. His wolf is intrigued by a grass snake curled under a bush.

Sherlock’s ears twitch, turn. He looks at John. He heard it too. Together, they creep up to the top of the hill in search of the source. Stumbling footsteps, several sets of them, human. Sherlock and John crouch in the darkness under the trees. The humans are on the coast path, on the other side of the fence. Not their territory. The people get closer. They can hear their voices now, calling, laughing. The wind changes, bringing the scent of cheap alcohol. Teenagers. John huffs in amusement and looks at Sherlock, eyes glittering. _Shall we give them a surprise?_

John’s amusement is catching. Sherlock can’t help but be drawn into the prank. They edge closer to the fence, slither under it. John starts up a soft growl. The teenagers don’t hear it yet; they’re too loud, their human eyes not sensitive enough. Sherlock adds his growl, then a short howl.

Confused exclamations from the path. John leads, leaping out onto the path into the beam of their torch. He’s puffed up, intimidating. Sherlock jumps out after him.

The teenagers, frozen in shock when they saw John, run scattering at Sherlock’s approach. Their cans of alcohol are abandoned, left leaking onto the path. The scent is cheap and pungent.

John yips, tail wagging. That had actually been fun. Stupid, a little reckless, but their kind of fun. They wriggle back under the fence to run off the excitement, roll around play-fighting. They go down to the beach. Ugh, sand stuff. It tickles his paws. Sherlock steps gingerly over it, following John. John wants to play in the water. Sand might be tickly, but he’ll follow his packmate anywhere.

They reach the water, or the water reaches them. John leaps over the first wave, lands all paws in the water. He freezes, yowling. Sherlock bristles, ready to run to him. John dashes out of the water and runs mad circles in the sand. Sherlock wags his tail and dashes after him. John runs back up the steps, chased by Sherlock, wipes his sandy, cold paws on the grass. Sherlock flops on the grass, panting. Lazily, he checks the progress of the moon. They’ve been out for hours, more than double their usual wandering time. It’s approaching midnight. John comes over and sniffs at him. They’re both slower now, more gentle in their mood and movements. Sherlock licks at John’s face. John nudges him, pushing him towards the cottage. Yes. Time to sleep.

Into the cottage, up the stairs. The bed sheets have been washed since their last stay, of course. They smell wrong, chemical, floral. Sherlock jumps up onto the bed, sniffing. Not acceptable. He rolls around, covering the sheets in his scent. John jumps up and does the same. There. Much better. The bed smells of them now, their combined scent. Sherlock walks a few circles and curls up. John flops down next to him, licks at Sherlock’s ears, grooming him. Sherlock’s eyes close. The attention from his packmate is making him sleepy. _Mmm, John._


	15. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My chapter summary notes for this chapter were: 'just tooth-rotting fluffy sex'. Enjoy.

When Sherlock wakes, in human form, everything around him smells of John, or SherlockandJohn. He is surrounded by their scent, spooned by John’s naked body, awash in the wolfish sensations of their pack bond. 

It makes him want John. He fell asleep with John licking and nuzzling him, and now he’s surrounded by his scent. He wants more, so badly that his body is aching for it. Wiggling his hips, he finds that John is hard too.

It’s too early to be awake. The sun is beginning to rise, a sliver of it just peeking out over the horizon. They haven’t come anywhere close to sleeping off their change, but Sherlock finds that he doesn’t care how early it is; he wants John inside him now.

Oh. That’s interesting. 

They haven’t done that yet. Sherlock has been curious, but so unused to any sort of sexual relationship. John has been wonderful, going at Sherlock’s pace, teaching and guiding. It’s actually been fun. Sherlock didn’t know sex could be fun. And gradually, he’s adjusted to this idea, to John inside him. His wolf side wants it too, the ultimate closeness to his packmate.

Sherlock wiggles his hips again, grinds back against John’s hardness. He brushes his fingers along his own erection, feather-light. There’s a half-asleep groan behind him. Sherlock rolls over, presses their groins together.

“John.” He nuzzles along John’s jawline, breathes in his scent, nips at his chin. “Wake up.”

“Wha’?”

John opens his eyes. Sherlock rocks them together again, drawing a moan from John.

“It’s not even morning,” John says, voice rough.

It’s a token protest. His hips are rocking with Sherlock’s now.

“I need you,” Sherlock says. The ache is only getting stronger. “I want you inside of me.”

He feels John shiver against him. “You’re sure?”

He nods. John moves away then, much to his disappointment, but he gets to admire John’s naked body as he moves to his bag and fishes in it. Sherlock’s hand drifts to his own cock, stroking himself. John turns around, having found the lube, and his eyes fix on Sherlock’s slowly moving hand.

“God,” he says. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

“You’re too far away,” Sherlock complains. “Come back to bed.”

“Bossy.” John grins and moves back onto the bed. He uncaps the lube and adopts a more serious face. “It’s okay if you don’t like it. Some people don’t. Just tell me to stop at any time and I will.”

Sherlock nods, mouth already busy on John’s neck, seeking out his sensitive spots. He manhandles John closer, kisses up his neck, along his jaw. John rolls them so that Sherlock is underneath him and Sherlock automatically spreads his legs. John kisses him deeply, trailing one hand over his chest, fingers rubbing at his nipples, then drifting lower. God, he could kiss John all day long. Future experiment, perhaps. He wants to crawl inside John’s mouth, be consumed by him even as he consumes John. But for now he settles for sliding his tongue into John’s mouth.

He can feel himself melting under the kiss, like he always does, but now he’s hyper-aware of where John’s hand is going. He hasn’t tried this yet. He’s had two fingers inside of John, but this is entirely new to him. He feels more than hears John lubing his fingers up. A gentle finger reaches between his legs and rubs slowly over his hole. Sherlock can’t help tensing, at first, but as the finger continues rubbing, and John continues kissing him like _that_ , he feels his muscles relax, invite John’s finger in. John reads his body, can tell Sherlock is ready for more. He slips his finger in, just to the first knuckle, stills to let Sherlock adjust.

He shivers. His cock is aching again, deprived of any contact except the press of John’s body against it. He wants to rock up, to rub against John, but he doesn’t want to shift on his finger yet. John pulls away from the kiss, question evident on his face.

“I’m fine,” Sherlock says, surprised to find himself a little breathless. “Just… Touch me, please.”

John, wonderful John, surprises him once again and does better than expected. Without moving his finger too much, he slides down Sherlock’s body, settles himself between his legs, and slides his lips down over Sherlock’s cock. Sherlock shudders as John starts sucking him slowly. Soon his hips are moving minutely, working John’s finger deeper with each movement. John’s mouth around his cock is a hot, wet thing of beauty, just the perfect amount of pressure, setting his nerves on fire. When John’s finger is in deep and Sherlock is moaning he twists it, probing, searching for—

_Oh, God!_

He arches up, cock pushing into John’s mouth, a strangled cry escaping his lips.

John slides off his cock with a _pop_ , swollen lips pulled up in a smirk. “Prostate,” he says.

“I know what it is, John,” he snaps, or tries to snap, but the bite is lost to breathlessness. “Do it again.”

John obliges him, sliding down over his cock again. After a few brushes of his prostate he is rocking onto John’s finger. “More,” he moans.

Carefully John works in a second finger alongside his first. He’s used to the stretch now, welcomes it, wants to feel John filling him up. Two fingers become three, then suddenly Sherlock has to tug on John’s hair, pull him off his cock.

“Stop.”

John freezes immediately, looking up warily as if he’s between the legs of a spooked animal.

“No. Don’t stop. It was just too much— I mean. I was too close.”

John’s face clears and he allows Sherlock a breather, mouthing at the delicate, pale skin of his inner thigh. Sherlock works himself back from the edge.

“I’m ready,” he says.

John pulls his fingers out to generously lube up his cock and Sherlock feels curiously empty. He reaches for John as John leans over him, hooks his legs around John’s waist as John slides a hand along his thigh.

Their eyes meet. Packmates. Lovers. John slowly pushes into him. Oh, God. He bites his lips against the stretch, focuses on John’s pupils dilating as he gets deeper. He’s so warm inside of him, and so hard. He swears he can feel John’s pulse racing inside of him.

“John,” he gasps, and John leans down to kiss him deeply, messily. 

He has never felt so surrounded by John. He kisses back hungrily, arching his body up against John’s, clinging to his arms, trying to get as much contact as possible. They both feel his muscles shift around John’s cock as he arches, and both groan into their kiss. Neither of them can hold back after that. John pulls back, slides out to the head of his cock. The slide is strange to begin with, but as John slides back in deep, Sherlock moans. It feels so intimate to be that close to him. Together they get a rhythm going: deep, slow thrusts that make him tremble. John’s hands run over his legs, up his sides, over his chest, warming his already flushed skin. Sherlock breaks their kiss, pants, tips his head back. John kisses and sucks down his neck and he moans his pleasure, watching the orange rays of the sunrise fill the room through half-lidded eyes. John is murmuring against his neck now, telling him he feels amazing, hot and tight, and he looks beautiful, and he makes gorgeous sounds, and Sherlock melts under John’s praise. He wraps his limbs around John, tries to pull him closer, runs his hands down John’s back. John’s strong hands slide to his hips and hitch them up. The angle changes, and he arches, gasping and moaning. John’s answering smile is breathless and triumphant and just the right amount of smug to drive Sherlock wild.

This is the part he loves. When John’s talented hands and mouth and cock start taking Sherlock apart. When all the observations clamouring in the background fade, and all Sherlock can focus on is the pleasure. He knows he gets loud at this point, and he knows that John loves it.

He doesn’t hold back, letting the moans escape his throat with every thrust. John’s rhythm falters, then steadies, faster now as they both near orgasm. He is aching for John to touch his dick, so close just from the friction and force of John’s cock inside of him. John keeps him burning at just the right temperature, knowing exactly how long to draw out his pleasure.

Just when he thinks he’s about to explode (and not in the way he wants to) John’s hand wraps around his cock and jerks quickly. Sherlock howls and tries to push into his hand and onto his cock all at once. He can barely keep his eyes open with the pleasure of it all but he wants to watch John above him, flushed and sweating and beautiful, muscles sliding under his golden skin as he thrusts deeper. A few firm tugs and he arches, toes curling, calling out John’s name hoarsely and painting thick stripes of come up his own chest. John is panting broken half-sentences of praise. Sherlock opens his eyes and looks blearily up at John, whimpering softly at each thrust rubbing against his deliciously sensitive skin. It doesn’t take long then. John comes with a curse and Sherlock feels it inside him, groans at the feeling.

They collapse together, limbs heavy. His mind buzzes gently. His wolf is relaxed and content. He traces his finger slow and soft over John’s back and John practically purrs. The moment is quiet apart from their breathing. Outside they can hear the waves crashing against the beach, and the birds calling to each other as they welcome the day. Sherlock slides his fingers up John’s back, over his shoulder, tilts his chin up for a sweet, slow kiss. He feels so loved and loving. He’s not good at the words for this, hasn’t had the practice that John has had, so instead he puts it all into the kiss, drawing John closer even though his limbs are weak and his come is drying unpleasantly between them.

John’s mouth is a joy. He’s melting, can still feel John inside him, limp now, but closer than they’ve ever been. He sighs softly, a very un-Sherlock noise that John somehow draws out of him, and pulls away from the kiss.

“John,” he says quietly. It means friend, packmate, lover, support.

John knows. He smiles. “I’ll get you a flannel.”

One more gentle kiss, and he carefully slides out of Sherlock and out of bed. Sherlock watches him go, watches the play of muscles in his arse and his legs and thinks about what else he’d like to do to him, but is distracted by a huge yawn. He shuffles, shifts up to a half-seated position with only the slightest of winces, and looks out to sea. The sun is just above the horizon, dark gold against the deep blue sea, staining the sky an orange which fades up to the palest of pinks. It’s rather beautiful.

“I wish I had a camera,” John says from the doorway.

He starts and looks over, but John isn’t looking at the sunrise, he’s looking at Sherlock. He looks down at himself. Naked, come drying up his stomach and chest, hair undoubtedly a mess, pale skin tinted gold and staring out to sea. He thinks he would like to see John in this position. He’d keep the image in his mind palace forever.

The flannel drips onto the wooden floor and breaks the moment.

John grins his little grin to himself that Sherlock knows means he can’t believe his luck. Sherlock can’t believe his luck either. He stretches out, lying down again. John moves over, kneels over him, gently cleans him off. He closes his eyes. The flannel is warm and pleasant on his skin, and made even better when it’s followed by John’s mouth trailing after it. He can’t seem to keep the ridiculous, soppy smile off his face.

“Come here,” he says when John is finished.

The flannel lands with a squelch near the door, and John settles over Sherlock and lets himself be kissed lazily but thoroughly. 

When they break apart for breath, he traces his fingers along John’s jaw. John turns turns his head to nip playfully at them.

“How do you exist?” Sherlock ponders. Foolish question, but he’s lost any filter in the afterglow. It would be embarrassing with anyone but John. John just smiles. “I never thought I’d ever have a true friend, but you’re that and more. I couldn’t do this without you, none of it. I want to live the rest of my life with you. When we’re too old to chase criminals we’ll buy this cottage and retire to it, and I’ll look after the bees, and you can look after the flowers, and grow vegetables that I won’t eat, and write stories about us, and—”

John’s finger rests over Sherlock’s lips, silencing him. Sherlock freezes. Too much?

“Yes,” John says simply, and kisses him.

Exhaustion gets the better of them, eyelids drooping. They’ve only had a few hours of sleep, and several hours of running around in wolf form. John yawns into their kiss and chuckles at himself. He pulls away from Sherlock’s lips. Backlit by the sunrise, his hair is a golden halo.

“Sorry, honey,” he says. “We both need more sleep.”

Sherlock glows at the pet name. John wrestles the duvet out from under Sherlock’s body and drapes it over them, drapes himself over Sherlock, settling his head on Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock glows more. He wraps his arms around his packmate and lover. His John. He’s so full of happiness he could burst. It’s an unusual feeling, but not unwelcome. And it won’t be unusual from now on. He has everything he needs for the rest of his life, right here with him in this bed. Oddly, he could even be grateful that he was attacked, that he went through everything he did, because it brought him John. It brought them together.

John snuggles sleepily closer. Sherlock kisses his head, nuzzles his hair, and closes his eyes. He smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there we have it. My eternal love and thanks to everyone who has read along, kudos'ed, commented - your support and compliments have meant so much to me!! And of course, again thanks to Emily for beta'ing, this story was drastically improved because of it!
> 
> I know we left this story in the most tooth-rottingly fluffy place we possibly could, but as I was editing it I just couldn't get a new idea for this AU out of my head. If you feel like joining Were Sherlock and John again for some post-Reichenbach angst (with a happy ending!) then make sure you subscribe to me as an author or follow me on tumblr so you can keep updated. If you don't want to burst the happy bubble of Change then pretend I never mentioned it!
> 
> I have a couple of little one-shots written and ready to post soon: a super fluffy piece and a PWP :)
> 
> Find me at hannahrrrr.tumblr.com


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